


Might've Took The Long Way

by LiveLaughLoveLarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Accidental Sex, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Exes, Exes to Lovers, From Sex to Love, Getting Back Together, Hook-Up, Insecure Louis, Louis just has to get some sense verbally bitchslapped into him first, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Zayn Malik/Liam Payne, Post-Break Up, Song: Too Young (Louis Tomlinson), Songfic, Summer Vacation, Teacher Louis Tomlinson, eventually, except it's, i hope to god that means background not underage, if working at a music studio giving lessons counts, like there's one scene maybe two depending how you count it, so they're not actually at uni at the moment but it's relevant, tbh it surprised me since I'm usually a fade-to-black kinda ace but suddenly there it was in my doc, they are not minors they are just a minor part of the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLaughLoveLarry/pseuds/LiveLaughLoveLarry
Summary: It's been two years since Harry and Louis broke up. They werethatcouple in high school -- you know the one; been together forever, hopelessly in love, all over each other, the whole nine yards. Even when Louis went off to university, they found a way to make the distance work.Until they broke up.Now Harry is back in town, and no matter how many times Louis tells himself they can't be together, they keep falling right back into each other.~*~*~“They got a name?” Bebe asks.“What?”“Your ghosts,” she says, her voice suddenly soft. “If you want to tell me, I mean. I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but. Sometimes it can help to exorcise them.” She pauses, and chuckles. “Other times, vodka works better than sage.”Louis holds his breath for a moment, building the courage, before he finally murmurs, “Harry.”“Sorry?”“Harry,” Louis says again. The name feels like a time bomb in his mouth, but it hasn’t blown up yet. “His name was -- is -- Harry.”Based on the song "Too Young" by Louis Tomlinson
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 272
Collections: READD BOOKS, Walls Fic Fest





	Might've Took The Long Way

**Author's Note:**

> I had an absolute blast writing this, and was super grateful to have something to focus on in this timeless time. Huge thanks to the mods who put this together and to all the other writers who participated, and of course to everyone reading, kudosing, commenting, sharing, etc. Y'all rock.
> 
> Title is from Shania Twain's "You're Still The One." Good ol' Shania.

The first time Louis sees him, he almost crashes the car. Which would suck. He needs this car for work. He’s on his way to work right now. But the second his eyes land on Harry, strolling down the sidewalk, everything else vanishes. Work doesn’t matter, stop signs don’t matter, nothing matters except long legs wrapped in skinny jeans, soft brown hair whose tight curls have softened into waves, a bright smile that doesn’t seem to be aimed at anything in particular. 

Louis slams on the brakes just as he reaches the intersection, wrenching his eyes back to the road. His heart is pounding, his breath harsh and ragged as he grips the steering wheel hard.

It can’t be him. It has to be a mistake, has to be someone who looks similar, has to be Louis’ mind playing cruel, cruel tricks on him. It can’t be him, even though Louis knows it totally can be, given that he grew up in this stupid town, given that his entire family still lives here, given that Grand Valley State University let out for the summer two weeks ago. 

He wants to look, to twist around and crane his neck and see if it really is him, to drink in the sight of him like a tall glass of water to a man lost in the desert. Or a bottle of vodka to a no-longer-recovering alcoholic. Same difference.

He wants to keep his eyes dead ahead, drive away, pretend he never saw anything, _forget_ he ever saw anything. He wants to cling to the desperate belief that it wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him, he’s not here, he _can’t_ be here. Louis can’t bear for him to be here. 

He turns around. His eyes dart along the sidewalk, his heart in his mouth filled with half fear and half hope, and he sees -- no one. He leans forward and backward, trying to get a better angle, but there’s not a soul in sight. Harry must have turned the corner. Or whoever it was. Not-Harry. Maybe-Harry.

Louis jumps at the sound of a car horn blasting impatiently from behind him. Right. Driving. He’s driving. To work. Right. 

He turns forward. It takes him a moment to remember how to work the pedals. The rest of the drive passes in a haze, his brain a fuzzy fog, and he only realizes once he’s parked that he can’t remember a second of it. His fingers feel stiff as he opens the car door, his joints creaking like he hasn’t moved in hours. The sounds of the city suddenly flood in -- birds chattering, car engines growling, leaves rustling. They flood the car with their music, washing out the heavy silence that lingers like a bad smell. 

Louis breathes -- in for four seconds, hold for seven, out for eight. And again. And again. Just the way he teaches his vocal students. Slowly, his shoulders relax, his jaw loosens, his mind grows -- not clear, per se, but calmer at least. He still feels fuzzy around the edges, but he can think. 

He pushes himself to his feet, climbing out of the car with slow, careful movements. Only when he’s sure his legs will hold him does he let go of the vehicle, crossing the parking lot to Aoki Music Academy with unsteady steps. 

The bell on the door jingles as he pushes it open, and Bebe looks up from the front desk with a smile. 

“Afternoon, Louis,” she chirps. “Callie’s mother called to say they’ll be a few minutes late, but they’re on their way.”

“Oh,” Louis says, still slightly dazed. “Good.”

Bebe’s smile slips, concern creasing her brow. “Are you all right, Louis?”

She’s always been perceptive, Louis thinks wryly. It makes her damned good at her job, the way she can read people and connect with them so easily, the way she can make them open up, but he really doesn’t want to go there right now. He can’t very well teach if his mind is stuck two years in the past. 

“I’ll manage,” he says, knowing that she’d only ask more questions if she saw a lie on him. And she would see it. “Just, um. Distracted.”

She tilts her head to one side. “Are you sure?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Louis smiles humorlessly. “You could say that.”

A look of understanding suddenly washes across Bebe’s face. “Ah,” she says. “Do you-”

“I just need to sit down for a minute,” Louis says quickly. “I’ll be fine.”

Bebe studies him again, and Louis looks away under her gaze, crossing to the practice room he and Callie use. She says nothing, though, and he’s grateful. He closes the door behind him, letting out a breath that’s half-relief and half-exhaustion. It’s just a few hours, he tells himself. He can do this. He hopes.

A few minutes later, the door to the practice room sweeps open, Callie racing in with breathless excitement as her pigtails flap behind her. Louis’ polite smile grows slightly more genuine at her energy and warmth. 

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Louis!” she says, plopping herself down at the piano. “Mum had to talk to Leo’s teacher ‘cause he threw a book at another student, and then Mikey had an accident when we got home, and _then-”_

Louis chuckles, holding up his hands. “Woah, slow down,” he says. “Sounds like you’ve had quite a day. Do you want to tell me about it, or do you want to get to your lesson?”

“Lesson,” Callie says quickly. “I’ve been practicing, Mr. Louis -- I’ve almost got that fast bit we’ve been working on.”

“Excellent,” Louis says. “Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?”

He can do this.

~*~*~

He can almost do this. He makes it to the very last student, a talented guitar player named Monty that Louis has been working with for almost a year now. They’ve finished the lessons Louis had prepared -- Monty is always a quick study -- and Louis decides to reward him and wind down with an impromptu jam session. They’re both fiddling around, strumming chords and riffs, singing a few lines here and there. It’s cacophonous and chaotic and creative and exactly what Louis loves most.

And then Monty starts singing a familiar song. 

“Ain’t nothing better,” he sings, his voice silky with just a touch of rasp. It’s beautiful. It makes the song that much more horrifying. “We beat the odds together.”

Louis’ hand freezes on the strings, a few discordant notes hanging in the air. His stomach clenches as his heart seems to be trying to climb its way up Louis’ throat. Monty quickly looks up at the silence.

“Louis? Are you okay?”

“I…” He coughs, trying to summon liquid into his suddenly bone-dry mouth. “No, yeah, I just… it’s been a while since I heard that song.”

“Not a fan of Shania?” Monty smiles teasingly, but his eyes are anxious.

“No, no, she’s great,” Louis says quickly. “I just, um. That song has some memories, you know?”

Monty’s eyes widen. “Oh crap, I’m so sorry Louis, I didn’t realize-”

Louis waves him off. “You’re fine,” he says quickly. “You couldn’t have known. And it wouldn’t usually bother me, I’ve just had, well, a bit of a day.”

“Still,” Monty says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Louis says again. “You sounded great, actually; we could work on some of those runs next week if you’d like.”

“I don’t want you-”

“I’ll be fine,” Louis insists, pushing himself to his feet. “Don’t worry. But it’s five past eight, so your mum is probably waiting. Pack up!”

Monty scrambles to comply, stowing his guitar in the padded carrying case. He quickly fastens the latches, picking up the instrument before glancing back at Louis. Louis smiles encouragingly, willing the motion to stretch into his eyes. 

“I’ll see you next week,” he says brightly. “Keep practicing -- it’s really paying off.”

Monty gives him a tentative smile, then disappears into the hallway.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Louis slumps. His legs buckle under him, and he finds himself sitting down hard on the ground, his hands shaking. He sets the guitar down beside him, then leans forward, pressing his forehead to his knees. Breathing is hard, takes concentration. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. 

Fuck.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he finally pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly. His hands feel barely connected to his body, his fingers just so many tubes of meat as he stows the Academy guitar back on its rack. He steps out into the hallway, head down as he makes his way towards the entrance, one foot in front of the other.

“There you are,” Bebe says as he enters the reception area. She’s wiping down the counters, all her folders of paperwork already put away for the night. “I wondered if you were gonna sleep in there.” 

There’s a teasing note to her voice, but Louis doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even look up from the ground. His head is too heavy.

Bebe sighs. “Oh dear,” she says. “Drinks?”

Drinks. Now there’s an idea. In his experience, there’s nothing like alcohol to help him not deal with a problem. 

“Only if you promise not to ask questions,” he says hoarsely.

Bebe laughs. “Deal,” she says. “You drove here, right? If you have room for my bike, you can park at mine.” 

Louis just nods. Five minutes later, Bebe’s bicycle is jammed into the back of the car and she’s chattering up a storm from the passenger seat as he drives them home. 

“Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow afternoon?” she asks as they climb out of the car. 

Louis shrugs. “It’s only a ten minute walk.”

“Yeah, but you’ll be hungover.”

Louis pauses, then dips his head in acquiescence. “Point.” He digs his keys out and tosses them to her. “Did you want to change or anything, or just get sloshed?”

Bebe laughs. “You don’t think I look cute already?”

Louis shrugs again. “I’m not really the best judge,” he points out. “I’m perfectly happy to go out in jeans and a t-shirt, but I know you like dressing up.”

“Fair.” Bebe peers at herself in one of the car mirrors, then pulls out a tube of lipstick, reapplying a dusty pink color to her mouth. She smacks her lips together, then straightens, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I think I’m gorgeous,” she says, blowing a kiss to her reflection. “Let’s go.”

She slings an arm around Louis’ waist, and he drapes his arm over her shoulder, taking a moment of comfort from her closeness, her kindness, her friendship. He doesn’t deserve her. 

He buys the first round as thanks, but she insists on covering the next round, and then suddenly they’re four drinks in and Louis is realizing that he forgot to eat dinner. 

The room spins lazily around him as he grips the table they’re sitting at to keep himself from swaying. He leans against Bebe, whispering loudly, “I think we may have made some bad decisions tonight.”

Bebe laughs. “Perhaps one or two,” she says, ruffling his hair. “But we also made some excellent decisions. After all, it’s not like I could leave you to wallow with your ghosts.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I am,” Bebe agrees. “They got a name?”

“What?”

“Your ghosts,” she says, her voice suddenly soft. “If you want to tell me, I mean. I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but. Sometimes it can help to exorcise them.” She pauses, and chuckles. “Other times, vodka works better than sage.”

Louis sighs, leaning his head against Bebe’s shoulder as he thinks. Or tries to think. It’s kind of difficult right now.

“Right,” Bebe says after a moment. “Do you want another round?” She starts to stand, but Louis tugs her back down. 

“No,” he says. “You’re my pillow. Also I’m definitely way too drunk already.” Bebe laughs, settling back into her seat. Louis waits a moment longer, building the courage, before he finally murmurs, “Harry.”

“Sorry?”

“Harry,” Louis says again. The name feels like a time bomb in his mouth, but it hasn’t blown up yet. “His name was -- is -- Harry.”

Bebe nods encouragingly. “And why is this Harry haunting you?”

“I saw him on the way to the Academy this afternoon,” Louis says. “Haven’t seen him in… more than a year and a half, it would be now. Since we broke up.”

“Ah,” Bebe says. “Seeing an ex again can be hard. How long were you together?”

“Three years,” Louis says. “A bit more. And we were friends for ages before that.” He smiles humorlessly. “I guess you could call us high school sweethearts. But now high school is over, and so are we.”

Bebe nods sympathetically. “The transition is hard,” she says. “Most couples don’t make it, unfortunately.”

“I know.” He really, really knows. He can’t count how many people have told him that, or how many times. He knows, damn it. It still hurts. “Can we go back to getting drunk now?”

“I thought you said you were too drunk already.”

“I was. But I am also not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.” He’s not sure there’s such a thing as drunk enough for this conversation.

Bebe gives him a tight hug. “How about we split the difference?” she says. “Call the conversation over, but we go find a burger place and drown our sorrows in fryer oil instead of vodka.”

Louis has the best friends. “Deal,” he says.

~*~*~

The second time Louis sees him, he walks into a pole. Hard. One second he’s speedwalking down the sidewalk, the next a mop of curly hair and a languid posture have captured his entire attention, and then suddenly he’s sitting down on the sidewalk, his face and his bum stinging.

“Are you all right?” someone asks from beside him. 

He waves them off. “Fine,” he says. “Just wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

“Are you hurt?” asks someone else.

“Just my pride.” He feels his nose, which thankfully doesn’t seem to be broken, though it is slowly dripping blood. He’s about to check his pockets for a napkin when a handkerchief is thrust into his hand.

“Thank y-” he starts to say as he looks up, and his gaze finds familiar green eyes, soft and warm. “You.”

“No problem,” Harry says with a smile. “Aren’t I usually the clumsy one, though?”

Louis can’t think straight. He can barely think at all. “You might be the only man alive who still carries a handkerchief,” he says instead. 

Harry shrugs. “It comes in handy,” he says. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Shit. Right. Louis probably shouldn’t be biting his head off. Or his hand. But -- it’s Harry. When it comes to him, everything just feels so much… more.

“Sorry,” he says, pressing the cloth to his face. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Harry extends a hand to help Louis up, and Louis almost takes it before he thinks better of it. That’s too close for comfort. 

“I’ve got it,” he says, getting to his feet alone. “My legs still work fine.” He tries to offer a friendly smile, but it’s mostly hidden behind the handkerchief.

“Right,” Harry says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Well. You’re all right then?”

_Well, let’s not get carried away,_ Louis thinks. He hasn’t been _all_ right in quite some time. But he knows that’s not what Harry means.

“I’m all right,” he says. 

“Good.” Harry pulls his hands out of his pockets, then puts them back in, looking mildly uncomfortable. “I guess I’ll see you around then?”

Not if Louis can avoid it. But also he probably can’t. “I guess,” he says.

“You can keep the handkerchief,” Harry says, gesturing to Louis’ face. “Seems like you could use it more than me. I’ve got spares at home.”

“I’ll wash it,” Louis says immediately. “Get it back to you.” Now it’s like he’s practically hoping to not avoid Harry. But he doesn’t need more physical reminders in his life.

“You don’t have-”

“I’ll get it back to you,” Louis says again. 

Harry looks down. “Okay,” he says. “Good to see you.”

Louis wishes he could say the same, wishes he didn’t feel the same, wishes he could stop wishing. “Yeah,” he says.

And then Harry is gone, leaving Louis to stare after him down the sidewalk, one hand still pressed to his nose and the other pressed to his chest as though it will remind him how to breathe.

It takes him a full minute to start walking again. 

~*~*~

The third time Louis sees him, he doesn’t walk into anything. Or drive into anything. He doesn’t even come close. Which might seem like progress, except that he’s standing still at the time. And he does almost drop the onion he’s picking up from the grocery produce display. He hastily fumbles to recover it, looking down and busying himself with selecting another onion for his bag.

It doesn’t help. Just as Louis feels like he has a homing beacon on his eyes, drawing them inexorably to Harry every time their paths cross, Harry must have the same gift. Or curse. Because a minute later, a shadow falls across the vegetables, and Louis doesn’t even have to look up to identify the warm, solid presence beside him. 

“Hi,” Harry says.

“Hey,” Louis says. He still doesn’t look up.

“How are you?”

“Fine.” He hates small talk, fucking despises it, especially when they’ve never needed it before, always knew the answers, could always skip right past it to the things that really mattered. “Oh, before I forget -- your handkerchief.”

He’s been carrying it for a couple of days now, meaning to drop it at Harry’s house -- that way he wouldn’t have to see him -- but he kept putting it off. He’s not sure if he wants to hang onto the ghost or just doesn’t want to visit Harry’s house and all _its_ ghosts. 

“Oh,” Harry says, as Louis digs in his bag for it. “You didn’t have to-”

“I did, actually,” Louis says, holding it out. His gaze doesn’t waver from the vegetables for a second. 

The folded white cloth hangs there for a moment, suspended between them, and Louis can’t decide if it feels like a peace offering or a declaration of war. At last, Harry reaches forward and takes it, tucking it into his pocket. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

“No problem,” Louis lies. “Thanks for the loan.”

The silence rises again, hanging heavy between them. Louis wishes Harry would just go away. There’s only so much interest he can feign in onions. 

Harry sighs, and Louis tries desperately not to look for meaning in the sound, tries not to read into the pitch or the speed or any of the thousand tiny tells that he used to be able to read on Harry like it was his mother tongue. 

“Are you really just going to keep ignoring me?”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Louis says evenly. He’s not sure if he’s lying or not -- he can’t help but pay attention to Harry, but he’s also shoving that attention under a rock. “I’m talking to you.” 

“You’re not looking at me.”

Louis grits his teeth and finally turns to face Harry, meeting his eyes. “I’m not ignoring you.”

It’s the first time he’s looked at him -- really looked at him -- in, well, years. He’s grown up. Louis knew that of course; it’s been two years, after all, and he’s seen the occasional picture on Facebook, but still. It’s different when it’s standing in front of him. Harry’s chest is broader, his muscles more defined, his posture more confident. His hair has relaxed out of the boyish curls he used to have, and his face has lost some of it’s cherubic roundness, but he still looks so much like the kid Louis fell in love with so many years ago.

It takes Louis a moment to realize that Harry is studying him too, his gaze piercing and thoughtful, and Louis would give anything to know what he’s thinking right now but he won’t. He won’t ask, won’t speculate, won’t try to read it on Harry’s face. It doesn’t matter.

“I was wondering if you’d want to hang out sometime?” Harry asks after a moment. “Not like -- I mean, just to talk or whatever.”

Louis’ face doesn’t move. “What’s there to talk about?”

Harry sighs again. “Just to hang out, even,” he says. “We could even invite some of the guys along. I miss those days. I miss our friendship. Don’t you ever get nostalgic?”

Nostalgic, ha. Louis, think about the past? Louis, miss the simpler, happier life he once had? Louis, wish he could go back to the good old days? Only constantly.

“Not really,” Louis says with a shrug. “I figure the past is past, you know? We can’t go back.”

“We can remember,” Harry says. “It’s like -- visiting.” 

Every time Louis visits the past, it feels like a slap in the face reminder of everything he can’t have. There are streets he doesn’t walk down anymore, stores he won’t visit because he can’t erase the feeling of Harry’s hand in his, the look of Harry’s eyes on his, the taste of Harry’s mouth on his. Sometimes even the house he grew up in feels haunted by memories.

“Niall’s back for the summer; he’s working at his mom’s restaurant,” Harry continues. “We’ve been planning to go out for drinks. Zayn and Liam stayed up at Dearborn, but they said they’d come down for a weekend or two sometime.”

Niall has always been more Harry’s friend than Louis’, and Louis hasn’t really kept in touch with anyone from high school since the break up. It was easier that way, he thought. But he has to admit, he does miss them. He misses Niall’s loud laugh and Liam’s parental nature and Zayn’s insightful comments. He’s missed Harry too, missed their friendship, missed shared secrets and spontaneous adventures and the feeling of knowing someone has your back, no matter what. 

He can’t go back. He knows that, he does, but… he misses it. Maybe for one evening, one drink, he can forget. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Harry’s face lights up, his smile making Louis’ stomach do somersaults. “Really?” he says. “That’s awesome; I’m sure Niall will be so excited to see you. I can text you details when -- or actually, is your number the same?”

“Oh, uh, no, I changed it,” Louis says. “I can-”

“Give me your phone,” Harry says, and Louis is powerless to do anything but obey. Harry’s fingers move quickly over the screen, and a moment later he’s handing the phone back to Louis. “I sent myself a text, so now I have your number too.”

“Oh,” Louis says. “Okay. Good.” He can’t tell if he’s lying or not.

Harry smiles again, softer this time. “I should get back to my shopping,” he says. “But it really is good to see you Louis.” He reaches out, squeezing Louis’ shoulder, then pauses. “Can I give you a hug?”

Louis’ chest aches with fear and longing. It feels like every time he tried to quit smoking, the desperate longing for something he knows isn’t good for him.

Quitting smoking was easier than saying no to Harry will ever be.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says, reaching back, and suddenly he’s enveloped in strong arms, pressed against a soft T-shirt, Harry’s hair tickling the side of his face as he’s squeezed so tight he can barely breathe. Louis squeezes back, like he wants his skin to melt into Harry’s, like if he holds him tight enough he’ll never have to let go. 

After a few seconds, Harry’s grip loosens, but Louis can’t help grasping for a few more moments. He inhales, smelling Harry’s favorite apple shampoo, just like when they were younger, but now it’s mixed with some kind of cologne or aftershave that Louis doesn’t recognize. It still smells like Harry, though. It still smells like home.

Louis forces himself to let go, to unwrap his arms from around Harry, to step back and make space between them. He bangs his hip on the corner of his cart, smiling like it doesn’t throb. Harry smiles back, still so soft and warm and familiar. And then he steps back, turns, and walks away. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry calls over his shoulder.

Louis sighs to himself. “You probably will,” he murmurs. He dumps the onions he was picking out back into the produce heap and walks away.

~*~*~

“You did _what?_ ”

“I didn’t do anything yet, Bebe,” Louis says, leaning against the front desk. 

“You gave him your number.”

“I…” Louis doesn’t really have a defense for that. “I did that, yeah.”

“Honestly, Louis, it’s like that song by Duolingo-”

“Dua Lipa.”

“One: don’t pick up the phone, you know he’s only calling cause he’s drunk and alone.”

“He hasn’t called me. And we were in a grocery store in the middle of the day; I don’t think he was drunk.”

“Two: don’t let him in, you have to kick him out again.”

“I haven’t _done_ anything, Bebe.”

“Not _yet_. Three -- and this one seems to be the most critical here -- don’t be his friend, you know you’re gonna wake up in his bed in the morning.”

Louis lets out a strangled noise that started out as a laugh. “I really don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, and then Bebe sighs. “I just worry about you,” she says. “It seems like this guy really screwed you up. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

_Too late,_ Louis thinks. “It’s just drinks with friends,” he says aloud. “One night. I’ll even make Niall sit between us.”

Bebe’s frown makes her eyebrows pinch. “I can’t stop you, obviously,” she says. “But I’m really not sure this is a good idea.”

“Bad ideas are my specialty,” Louis says.

Bebe opens her mouth to keep arguing, but before she can say another word the front door swings open, and they both switch into professional mode to welcome the student. Sixty seconds later, Louis is disappearing into a practice room, glancing over his shoulder at Bebe just in time to see her shooting him a last worried look. 

He pushes it to the back of his mind. He has work to do.

~*~*~

Wednesday nights are Lottie & Louis nights. Louis takes sibling bonding very seriously, and so every week they go out for dinner or visit a museum or just stay in and hang out on the couch.

This week is a pretty typical order-pizza-and-watch-TV night, and it takes hardly any time before they’re snuggled up together, carefully trying to avoid dripping pizza grease on their fuzzy blankets. Louis isn’t entirely sure what they’re watching -- some historical drama that Lottie picked out -- but he has enough of the names to prop up his end of the conversation when needed. Lottie has always been the more critical TV watcher of the two of them.

They finish the first episode around the same time as they finish the pizza, so Louis pops some popcorn to nibble during the next episode. He’s about to hit play again, when Lottie nudges him with her foot.

“Hey Lou?”

“Yeah Lotts?”

“Can I ask you about something?”

“Always.”

“There’s, um.” She fiddles with the edge of her blanket. “There’s a dance coming up at school this month. The Spring Fling.”

“Sounds festive,” Louis says. “For as bad as I am at dancing, I always did love school dances.”

Lottie laughs. “They are fun,” she says. “And this one -- a lot of people are going, you know, together.”

“Yeah, it’s always more fun in a group,” Louis says. “Getting ready with all your friends, goofing off together.”

Lottie fiddles with the blanket some more. “Not that kind of together.”

Louis frowns. “Then what -- oh. Oh, I see.” He blinks. That’s… early. Lottie is barely a teenager. Granted that was before he had entirely figured himself out, so he wasn’t really looking for anything yet, but still. He’s pretty sure most of his classmates weren’t really dating yet. He’s not sure how he feels about the way kids are getting older younger.

Lottie glances up at him, then away again. “So, um, yeah,” she says. “There’s… there’s someone in my class I was thinking I’d like to, well, go with.”

Louis nods, waiting for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Exciting,” he says at last. “Boy, girl, other?”

“Boy,” Lottie says. “He’s -- his name is Timothy. Timmy.”

Louis pats her leg encouragingly. “Tell me about him.”

And Lottie smiles, her eyes lighting up and her whole face glowing with it. “He’s really goofy,” she says. “I think you’d like him. He always cracks jokes and likes to pull little pranks -- nothing too serious, just like leaving weird notes or pictures on the blackboard. But he’s smart, too, and he works hard in classes and he’s just… he’s sweet. You know?”

Louis smiles. “Yeah, Lotts,” he says. “I know.”

“But so like,” Lottie continues, “I was thinking of asking him to the dance, but then -- is that weird? For me to ask him?”

“‘Course not!” Louis says. “It’s the 21st century, Lotts; girls can ask out guys if they want to. And if he thinks that’s weird, he’s the one stuck in the past and good riddance.”

Lottie shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “You don’t think it might not be better to like… have Ashley mention it to one of Timmy’s friends? And they could tell Timmy so if he wants to-”

“That’s so many steps,” Louis interrupts. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you can if you want to, but what if Ashley forgets to tell the friend? What if the friend mixes up the message?”

“Yeah,” Lottie says. “You’re right. And like, I don’t want to be weird about it, I don’t want to be like helpless or -- but I just -- I really like him, and I don’t want-”

“Lottie,” Louis says, chuckling. “Calm down for a sec.” He ruffles her hair affectionately. He may not always be the best role model, the kind of person he wants her to look up to, but boy problems he can handle. Advice he can handle. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’ve got time. You’re still young. This is not the be-all and end-all.”

Lottie bites her lip. “Do you think it’s silly?” she asks. “Do you think I’m too young to be -- I don’t know, so attached, I guess?”

“No, no, of course not,” Louis says quickly, before pausing and considering his words. “I think -- well, I definitely think you’re too young to be thinking about marriage or like… you know, _doing_ stuff-”

“Louis!” Lottie’s cheeks are pink. 

“All right, all right,” Louis says, laughing. “It had to be said though. You know, stay safe, use protection-”

“Louis, please! I’m sorry I even brought it up!”

Louis gives Lottie a one-armed hug. “I’ll stop,” he says. “I swear. I just want you safe and happy. And I don’t think you’re silly. I think you’re smart and kind and mature and thoughtful. I think you’re growing up, and that’s a little terrifying, but it’s also exciting, you know? I think…” He stops again, searching for the right phrase. “I think it’s okay to start learning now,” he says. “I think everyone starts somewhere. Part of me wants to be protective, but that’s not how you learn. Some things will work and some things won’t, and you’ll learn more about yourself in the process. Making mistakes is part of growing up.”

Lottie stiffens. “You think this is a mistake?”

“That’s not what I said,” Louis says quickly. “I just meant -- in any relationship, even any friendship, you’re not going to get everything right all the time. You’re going to hurt people you don’t mean to, or they’ll hurt you. You’ll change and grow over time, and that means adjustments. And even two people who care about each other can be incompatible. Learning is part of the process.”

“You think we’re going to hurt each other.”

He kind of does, but he doesn’t want to say that. He doesn’t want Lottie to think it’s over before it’s started. “I think it’s not super likely that the first boy you go on a date with is the one you’ll marry,” he says. “But that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be.”

Lottie bites her bottom lip, worrying it with her teeth. “Do you think I shouldn’t do it?” she asks softly. 

“Oh, Lotts. Come here.” He pulls her into a tight hug, feels her burrowing into his chest. She’s so small still, so young and fragile and unformed. “I don’t think it’s my place to tell you what to do,” he says. “If it would make you happy -- go for it. It’s scary, but that’s life. Nothing is guaranteed. We try anyways. If you want to wait, that’s fine too. There’s no rush. There’s never a rush. And whatever you pick, I’ve got your back. That’s what big brothers do.”

Lottie sniffles slightly. “Thanks,” she says after a moment. “I don’t know, it’s all so confusing.”

“It is,” Louis agrees. “It’s a lot. But you don’t have to figure it all out right away. You’ll get there.”

“I hope so.” Lottie sighs and sits up, grabbing the remote. “Anyways. I’d rather focus on someone else’s romantic drama for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

Louis chuckles as she hits play, snuggling back into his side as the opening sequence blooms on the TV. He rubs her arm fondly, watching her twirl her long hair around a finger as she stares at the characters exclaiming and flouncing about. 

He hopes she fares better than he did. 

~*~*~

Louis pulls up outside the bar at 7:58 pm. Harry said to meet at eight, which means he’s two minutes early, which is almost unheard of for Louis. He refuses to read into what that might mean.

He also refuses to be there early, so he leans back in his seat, letting the radio finish one last song. He glances across the parking lot and jumps slightly when he sees Harry leaning against the wall. Harry is always early.

Harry isn’t looking in his direction, instead typing something on his phone. Louis watches him for a moment, taking in his relaxed posture, his artfully messy hair, his tight jeans. Harry’s head rises suddenly, looking off to his left as a bright grin spreads across his face. Louis can’t hear the shouted words, but he recognizes Niall striding across the pavement, hands tucked in his pockets and a shit-eating grin on his face.

Harry greets Niall with a tight hug, eyes shining as they chat for a moment. They glance around at the parking lot, and Louis barely resists the urge to duck out of sight -- too attention-grabbing, better to just look down and hope neither of them know his car.

He shouldn’t be hiding. He’s supposed to be meeting them, after all. It’s no surprise that he’s here. And it’s 8:01 now, so he’s not early.

But he can’t move.

He misses Harry more than words can express, and he misses Niall more than he’d have guessed, but he can’t move. Even opening the car door seems like a monumental effort, let alone getting out of the car, crossing the parking lot, and then-

This was a bad idea. He knew that when he agreed to it, he knew it when Bebe told him so, but he still wanted it. And now…

Now he’s regretting it.

He pulls out his phone, typing and erasing and rewriting with shaky hands. When he finally hits send, he sets down his phone and peels out of the parking lot, not waiting to see it read.

_Sorry, something’s come up_ , the message reads. _Can’t make it tonight. Maybe another time?_

There will not be another time. Louis will make excuses until the invitations slowly dry up. He feels slightly sick to his stomach at the thought, and he feels bad for cutting off Niall in the process, but he keeps driving. Maybe he can hang out with Niall alone sometime, just the two of them. He’ll understand. Probably.

Louis keeps driving, but as he reaches his street, he realizes he really doesn’t want to go home and sit by himself in his empty apartment. 

He pulls into his parking space and texts Bebe.

_Are you free?_

She texts back in less than a minute. _As a bird, baybeee. Need a drinking buddy?_

Louis’ stomach turns. _I just came from not doing that, so maybe something else?_

_OH_ , Bebe says. _I’m proud of you, Lou. Ice cream and Netflix?_

_You’re the best._

_I’ll be there in fifteen minutes._

~*~*~

Louis leans against the counter in a kitchen that’s slightly too full of people and empty beer cans and throbbing music, assessing his life choices. Events like this aren’t exactly his scene -- not that he doesn’t enjoy a good party, but, well, most aren’t that good. This one definitely isn’t.

He sighs, taking another sip of his drink. He’s on his third beer of the night, and not quite _drunk_ -drunk yet but well on his way. Far enough along that even though he’s not quite enjoying himself, he doesn’t quite have the motivation to leave just yet. Or do anything, really.

It had seemed like a good idea, when one of the guys at Aoki had said he was having a birthday party. It had seemed like fun -- drinks, food, people -- seemed like a good way to get out of his head for a bit. Maybe he’d even find a guy that he didn’t mind the idea of kissing, another warm body that could make him feel a little less alone instead of a little more aware of what he no longer has. 

But he’s just… not feeling it. He only recognizes a handful of people -- he hasn’t even seen the birthday boy -- and the music is a little too loud and a lot too meaningless for his tastes. Everyone else seems to be enjoying it, and he’s not here to yuck anyone’s yums, but it’s just… not his thing. 

He takes another sip, glancing through the kitchen door to the living room he escaped from a few minutes ago. In there, the music is even louder, the people even more numerous, and the press of that many sweaty bodies made Louis feel a little like he was going to throw up on someone’s shoes. In the kitchen, there’s at least a window open that gives a little bit of a breeze. 

He watches the lights flash, the bodies roiling like a pot of boiling water, all hands and hair and heat and -- Harry?

He’s not even sure he saw it, not sure he didn’t just imagine it, but for a split second, caught in the light, one of the silhouettes looked just like Harry. He cranes his neck, trying to see it again, even as the rest of his brain is screaming for him to look away, to leave, to run for the fucking hills. He leans forward, eyes straining.

There. There’s no mistaking the way those limbs move, just a little too long, just a little too bendy, just a little too close to smacking someone. There’s no mistaking that hair, carefully controlled by a loosely tied bandana. Maybe someone else wouldn’t see it, but for Louis, Harry might as well be standing alone in broad daylight wearing a nametag.

He stands abruptly, his stomach churning. He should leave. He should get drunker. He should hide. He doesn’t want to be here with Harry. But there’s enough people that maybe Harry won’t see Louis. Or maybe Harry would find Louis in any crowd, the same as Louis does.

Either way, there is one important problem: there is no way out of the house from the kitchen. The only way to leave involves going through the living room.

Maybe he can climb out a window. Maybe he can hide in a kitchen cabinet until everyone leaves. Maybe he can grow a mustache and change his name to something douchey, like Arthur James. 

Maybe the quality of his idea generation has been severely reduced by alcohol.

He waits for a bit, watching that person file into the kitchen for a breath of air or a fresh drink and this one rejoin the writhing crowd. He hasn’t seen Harry in several minutes, and is beginning to wonder if he might have imagined him. He doesn’t think so, but it’s hard to be sure, really. Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought. Or maybe he’s finally lost his fucking mind.

Maybe he should just leave.

He pushes himself away from the counter and heads for the living room before he can change his mind. Standing, however, reveals a new wrinkle: he _really_ needs to pee. Like, a lot. Like, he really doubts he’d last the full Uber ride home. And that would require a hell of a tip to not destroy his star rating.

Okay. So bathroom first, then leave. Okay. Cool. Plan made.

He walks carefully into the fray of the living room, trying to keep clear of the swinging arms and jerking legs, and thankfully manages to make it to the stairs without anyone elbowing him in the bladder. He glances out at the crowd as he climbs up, and his foot catches the next step. In the middle of the mass of motion, there is a single spot of stillness. One face, completely unmoving, staring up at him. 

Harry.

Louis looks away and keeps walking, swallowing down nausea. Definitely time to leave. 

He finds the bathroom blessedly unoccupied and slips in, already fumbling with his jeans. He wore his tightest pair, the ones that make his ass look particularly good, but now he’s regretting that choice. Trying to release the buttons is pressing against his bladder, which is protesting vigorously, especially now that release is within sight. 

He gets everything out of the way just in time, shuddering with relief as the sound of water splashing fills the echoey room. Fuck, he always forgets how fast alcohol goes through him. It’s led to more than one messy end to a night out. 

Louis is midstream when he hears the door rattle. “Occupied,” he calls, trying to pee faster without messing up his aim. 

The door rattles again, and Louis must not have locked it properly in his rush, because the door swings open and someone steps inside. Louis opens his mouth to yell at the intruder, but the words die on his lips as the figure turns.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry says, shutting the door behind him. “I needed to piss.”

He doesn’t look sorry, Louis can’t help but think. He looks beautiful. He looks self-assured. He looks like he’s looking directly at Louis’ dick.

Louis jerks his attention back to keeping the stream aimed at the bowl as he finally finishes. He tucks himself back into his pants, zipping up his jeans and crossing to the sink. But the sound of the water can’t disguise the sound of another zipper.

There’s a gentle splashing, and Harry lets out a groan of relief that sends shivers down Louis’ spine. He tries to keep his eyes on his hands, but, well. And Harry had clearly been staring at him before. It was only fair.

Louis glances over, and his breath catches. Harry has always had a pretty dick, thick and veined, peeking out of a forest of pubic hair. His fingers are long and slender against it, his thumb rubbing idly along the base in a way that makes Louis’ mouth water and his neck flush. 

He glances up to see Harry watching him, a slight grin stretching across his face. “Hi.”

Louis swallows. “Hi.”

“Nice party.”

“It is.”

“Nicer bathroom.”

Louis laughs, though he has to admit it is one of the nicer bathrooms he’s been drunk in. The shower is all one color, there are towels on the rack and they’re actually dry. “It is rather classy in here, isn’t it?”

“Mmmm.” Harry finishes peeing, tucking his dick back into his boxers, and Louis is almost sorry to see it go. “Very clean.”

Louis is thinking things that are much less clean. 

He hopes his thoughts don’t show on his face as he coughs, stepping aside and motioning Harry to the sink. Harry takes his place, soaping up carefully, making sure to rub down each individual finger --

Louis looks away. He’s been half-hard since practically the moment Harry walked in, but this is not helping. Memories swirl before his eyes -- Harry’s hands on Louis’ hips, his thighs, his cock; his own hands on Harry’s stomach, his tongue, his ass. He remembers Harry spread out on his bed, remembers Harry on his knees, remembers Harry pressed against him in the shower. He remembers falling asleep wrapped in each other, remembers comfortable breakfasts, remembers _Harry_ , in everything.

“You okay?” The question jolts Louis out of the past and back into the bathroom, where Harry is standing just two feet away from him, this luxurious bathroom suddenly small and airless.

“Yeah,” Louis manages. “I’m fine.”

Harry sways half a step closer, and Louis’ chest tightens still further. “I half-expected you to run as soon as you were done in here.”

“Yeah, well.” Why didn’t he run? Why isn’t he running now? His feet are frozen to the ground, but his hands start to rise of their own accord, reaching for Harry. He stops them before he can touch, but it’s a close thing. “Maybe I’m not one for running. Too much exercise.” He tries for a joke and a smile, but both fall flat. Harry doesn’t laugh

“You ran the last time I tried to talk to you,” Harry says, and it’s like cold water dumped over Louis. Right. Because they’re over. Because they’re nothing. Because it’s a waste of time. Because Louis needs to move on.

“Maybe I just wanted to make sure you washed your hands.”

“I’m the one who trained that into you,” Harry points out. “I’m impressed that it’s stuck.”

As if Louis could ever forget anything Harry taught him. “Maybe,” Louis says, scrambling for another answer, anything that’s not “I missed you” or “I never want to leave you” or even “I’d never pass up an opportunity to stare at your dick.”

“Maybe,” Harry says instead, stepping so close Louis feels like he’s drowning in him, in his eyes and his voice and his smell. “Maybe you didn’t want to leave.”

Louis kisses him. 

Harry doesn’t waste a second in responding, positively coming alive under Louis’ touch. He pushes Louis back against the bathroom wall, pressing up against him in a way that makes Louis’ legs go weak. Louis groans softly, his hips twitching up towards Harry, who crowds still closer, slipping his leg between Louis’ as he slips his tongue into Louis’ mouth, and Louis could swear he feels his dick twitch in his pants. Fuck, he’s already so hard, he’s never gotten this hard this fast, but he already aches with it, grinding against Harry’s thigh with a desperation that makes him feel like a teenager again. Harry isn’t much better, panting into Louis’ mouth and rolling his hips against Louis’.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry murmurs, his voice deep. “You’ve still got it, that’s for damn sure.”

_Harry_ has still got it, has still got everything, has still got Louis’ entire heart, and Louis swallows the words like he swallows Harry’s tongue, drinking him in, devouring every last drop he can get. He says nothing, hopes Harry will say nothing as he licks the words out of his mouth.

Suddenly, he finds himself on his knees, reaching for Harry’s still unzipped trousers, when Harry’s hands wrap around his wrists. 

Louis freezes. Harry is quiet for a moment, breathing hard, and the words he manages to force out seem strained. 

“Do you want to come back to mine?” he asks, his voice low and raspy. “Then we can… take our time.”

Louis swallows hard, searches his mind for a reason to say no, to get up and walk out, to keep his distance. A single reason to stay away from Harry’s touch, his kiss, his bed. He remembers there being reasons, remembers having dozens of them, and yet -- here, with Harry already breathless and sweaty in front of him, he can’t think of a single one.

“Yes,” he says.

~*~*~

Louis wakes up slowly. The mattress is soft beneath him, the blankets warm. He doesn’t have to be up for a while, anyways. He might as well get some more sleep.

He starts to roll over, but something stops him. It takes a couple of seconds to realize there’s something wrapped around his waist. Too solid for bed sheets, it’s -- an arm. Oh no. Oh _no_.

Suddenly it all comes rushing back. The party. The bathroom. The kiss. The giggling, giddy walk the two blocks to Harry’s house. And then…

Well. He doesn’t remember all the details at the moment, but judging by the sweat that’s still tacky on his bare skin, the faint aroma that still hangs in the air, and soreness in his ass and his throat… he can guess the basics.

There’s a soft sigh from behind him, warm air, brushing over the back of his neck, and Louis freezes. His heart is pounding, and he can only hope Harry can’t feel it.

God, he’s woken up like this more times than he can count, tucked away in Harry’s bed, wrapped around each other, soft and warm and happy. He remembers trading sleepy, early-morning kisses, remembers stumbling downstairs to let Anne or Jay feed them breakfast, remembers holding hands as they drove to school. It feels like yesterday. A part of him half-expects the smell of pancakes to start wafting up the stairs any second.

But it wasn’t yesterday. They’re no longer children. There will be no pancakes. And even if there were -- he can’t stay. 

Louis lies still for a moment, listening to Harry’s breathing. Once he’s sure that it’s slow and even, that Harry is sound asleep, he slowly slips Harry’s arm off of his hip, lowering it to the mattress. He scoots forward, sliding off the mattress slowly and carefully, making sure not to jostle anything.

His clothes are strewn all over the room -- underwear caught on a chair, shirt inside-out in the corner. He tugs on the boxers quickly, then grabs the rest of his things, bundling them into his arms. He can only find one sock, but he doesn’t have time to keep looking. He really doesn’t want to be here when Harry wakes up.

He opens the bedroom door a crack, peering through to make sure the hallway is empty, then slips out on silent feet. He ducks into the bathroom to quickly put on the rest of his clothes, then heads for the stairs, praying he still remembers which ones creak. 

He makes it downstairs without a sound, and is tugging on his shoes when he hears a door open upstairs. The sound of footsteps sends his heart into his mouth, and without thinking he jumps into the coat closet, pressing himself behind the hanging coats. They’re still swaying slightly when the footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs. Louis holds his breath.

The footsteps approach the front door, then stop, motionless. Louis waits, almost nauseous with the desperate hope that he won’t be found, won’t have to face him, won’t have to have a conversation about whatever happened and whatever mistakes he made. He waits, every muscle so tense it feels like snapping, for Harry to leave, to go back upstairs and let him slip out into the morning unnoticed. But Harry doesn’t move. 

The moment seems to stretch on forever, or maybe it’s just the ache in Louis’ lungs and the burning in his eyes. When he hears footsteps at the top of the stairs, he’s not sure if it’s been a minute or an hour, only that it felt like an eternity.

“Harry?” Anne’s voice is sleepy and warm, so motherly that just hearing it feels like being wrapped in the softest hug, and Louis could almost cry with wanting it. “Is that you, muffin? It’s barely six; what are you doing up so early?”

Harry is silent for a long moment. “Nothing,” he says at last. “I just -- I thought -- nothing.”

His voice has a rasp to it, a roughness that Louis tries to tell himself is just from sleep, tries to tell himself has nothing to do with the images that suddenly flash before his eyes of Harry from the night before, spread out on the bed, lips puffy and pink and stretched around -- no. It’s just sleep. Just morning. 

Anne pauses for a moment before speaking again. “Are you all right?”

Harry sighs. “I’m fine,” he says. Another sigh, softer, and then in a murmur so quiet Louis has to strain to hear it, “I’m an idiot.”

Louis closes his eyes, bites his tongue, swallows down bile, and waits. A minute later, he hears the footsteps going back up the stairs, heavy and slow. He can’t hear the murmured conversation between Harry and Anne, but he hears the sound of a door closing, and then -- silence. He waits, counting out a minute, two, three. At last, when he’s sure, he slips out of the closet, opens the door millimeter by millimeter, then slips out into the morning air, closing the door behind him.

He adjusts his half-on shoes, then begins the walk home, laces trailing behind him.

~*~*~

Louis sits slumped against the side of the couch, his feet curled up in front of him. He can dimly hear his phone buzzing, but he can’t bring himself to reach for it. Every inch of his body feels heavy, like he’s wearing weighted blankets instead of clothes, like he’s moving through honey.

Suddenly, a ringtone splits the air. His ringtone. There’s only one person persistent enough to call until his phone’s silencer is disabled. He shakes off the fog slowly, reaching for the device.

“Hey Beebs.”

“Finally,” she says. “If you didn’t pick up, I was going to march over there and bang on your door next. Ignore me then, I dare you.”

“Is that a challenge?” Louis’ mouth feels full of honey, his brain full of wax, his skin full of bees.

“It is not,” Bebe says. “Seriously, Lou, you can’t just text me ‘you were right’ at six in the morning and then ignore me when I text you back.”

“Maybe I was asleep.”

“Anytime you start a sentence with ‘maybe’ I know you’re lying to me.”

Louis sighs. “Maybe.”

That startles a laugh out of Bebe, but it only lasts a moment. “Louis,” she says. “What. Did. You. Do?”

A lump swells in Louis’ throat. “You were right,” he says. “And I was stupid.”

“I’m usually right,” Bebe says. “And -- no offense, you know I love you, but -- you are frequently stupid. Specifics, babe. Please.”

“Rule three.”

“Rule-” 

Louis can hear her pause as she figures out what he’s referencing, can hear her soft exhalation as she runs through the lyric in her mind, can hear her gasp as she realizes. He closes his eyes.

“Louis. Please tell me you didn’t.”

Silence. He can’t. 

“Oh boy.” She lets out a long breath. “Well, that’s -- well.”

“Yeah.” 

“How-”

“Party,” Louis says. “We were -- really drunk.” He tips his head back against the couch. His temples are throbbing, though whether it’s from a hangover or just stress he can’t tell. 

“Are you okay?” Bebe asks softly. 

Louis almost laughs, or maybe almost sobs. “No.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Louis considers. She’ll hold him. She’ll comfort him. She’ll eat ice cream and watch shit television with him. 

She’ll chastise him. She’ll worry about him. She’ll waste time she could be putting to better use for him. 

“No,” he says. “I’m fine.”

There isn’t even a full second’s pause before her next words. “Are you lying?” 

He bites his lip. “Yes.”

“I’m on my way.”

~*~*~

It’s been a long week, and Louis has just settled into the couch to watch TV, when he hears a knock at the door. He considers ignoring it -- he’s _just_ gotten comfy; it’s probably nothing important -- but the knock comes again.

“Louis! Get your ass out here!” 

Louis sits bolt upright at the voice, a grin spreading across his face. He quickly scrambles to his feet, almost running to the door and throwing it open to reveal a tall, golden-skinned man with the most chiseled cheekbones Louis has ever seen.

“Zayn!” he whoops, pulling him into a bear hug without a moment’s hesitation. 

Zayn laughs, hugging him back. “Good to see you, man,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“Ages,” Louis agrees. “Come in, can I get you tea or water or-”

“Tea sounds lovely.”

“So how have you been?” Louis asks as they move into the kitchen.

“I’m good,” Zayn says. “Yeah, art school is amazing, and I’ve got a job as an English tutor as well as volunteering at a local gallery.”

Louis gives a low whistle. “Sounds like you’re keeping busy.”

Zayn laughs. “It’s a lot,” he agrees, “but I love it. I really do. And this year I’m living with Liam off campus, save a bit on those dorm costs, you know, and we just get on so well.”

“That sounds like an interesting household,” Louis says with a laugh. “He’s so tidy, and you’re so… not.”

“It took a little work,” Zayn says. “And we do sometimes drive each other a little bananas. But we have the same taste in movies, and if I do the cooking -- which makes more sense anyways, with my dietary restrictions -- he doesn’t mind doing the cleaning. It balances out.”

The kettle snaps off, and Louis pours the tea into the two waiting mugs, handing one to Zayn and taking the other for himself. He sits down at the kitchen table, motioning to the other seat, which Zayn takes.

“You still know my tea preferences,” Zayn says with a crooked smile.

Louis laughs. “They’re practically identical to mine; it’s not like it’s hard to remember.”

“Still,” Zayn says. “It feels… nice. To be back. To be remembered.”

Louis doesn’t know how to respond to that. “You’re a sap,” he says at last. 

“Guilty.” Zayn grins. “What about you, what have you been up to?”

Louis shrugs. “Not much he says. After I dropped out, I stayed with Mum and the girls for a while. Worked at a grocery store. The usual. These days I’m working at a music studio, giving lessons to kids. It’s not fancy, but way more pleasant than retail.”

“You’re telling me!” Zayn says. “And if it pays the rent on this place, seems like you’re doing pretty well.”

“Took a while,” Louis says. “To work my way up, build up a roster, but yeah. Now it covers pretty much everything, if I’m careful about it.”

“You’ve always had a knack for music,” Zayn says warmly. “And such a good rapport with kids. It seems like a great fit for you.”

Louis makes a face. “It’s not really what I even pictured myself doing,” he says. “But it pays the bills. And I do enjoy it. If you ever need a musician or twelve for one of your art projects, let me know.”

Zayn laughs. “I’ll do that,” he says. “Could be interesting, if I ever get back into audio or video. But these days I’m mostly working with drawing and painting.”

“Fair enough,” Louis says. “Gosh, I can’t believe -- it’s so good to see you.”

“Back at you,” Zayn says, smiling. “Niall said you probably wouldn’t be at drinks tonight, and me and Liam are only back for the weekend, but I wasn’t going to miss dropping in on you.”

There’s something in the way he says it, the way “me and Liam” sounds like a single unit rather than two people, the way the words sit so comfortably on his tongue. Louis glances up at him.

“You and Liam?”

Zayn looks down at his cup, but a soft smile spreads across his face. “Yeah,” he says. “A little over six months now. It’s… it’s good. Yeah.”

Louis swallows hard around the lump in his throat. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says. 

Zayn looks up, and his eyes are shining in the way that Louis has only seen when Zayn talks about his art. “Thanks,” he says. “It was actually you that gave me the balls to say something -- you and Harry, seeing how you’d made the whole friends-to-boyfriends thing work.”

Louis snorts. “It didn’t work for that long.”

“Three years is a pretty long time,” Zayn says softly. “I know it was rough, at the end, but you had a lot of happiness together. That’s worth celebrating, even if it didn’t last forever.”

Guilt pinches at Louis’ heart. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was… I guess I’m still a little bitter. But I really do hope the best for you guys. You know that, right?”

“‘Course,” Zayn says, shrugging. “Don’t apologize for feeling how you feel.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t push that on you. You deserve to be happy.”

Zayn smiles. “It’ll take more than one of your snarky remarks to ruin my day,” he says. “I’m just glad to see you. And to let you in on this part of my life.” He nudges Louis’ foot with his own. “I don’t think we ever actually told Harry, actually; we were waiting for it to feel more settled, and then waiting for the right time, and then it had been months, and it felt awkward and then… well, then it was now.” 

“I guess he’ll probably find out when you all go out for drinks tonight,” Louis says.

Zayn chuckles. “Yeah, that’s probably considered a pretty major part of the ‘so what have you guys been up to’ spiel,” he says. “Or it might be obvious when we walk up holding hands. Though you never can tell what Harry will be oblivious to.” He takes a sip of his tea. “You should come.”

Louis lets out a strangled noise that might have been a laugh and might have been him choking on his own tongue. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’ll be fun! Get the old gang back together again.”

Louis looks down at his cup, choosing his words carefully. “The last time Harry and I were drunk around each other, we didn’t make good choices.”

“Oh.” Zayn sounds concerned. “You fought?”

Louis laughs. If only they had fought. “Not exactly.”

“Then what-” Zayn stops abruptly. “Wait. You-”

“Yeah.”

“And he-”

“A little bit.”

“And by a little bit you mean-”

“Do you want me to give you a play-by-play of exactly how he fucked me into his mattress?” Louis says, looking up sharply at Zayn. 

Zayn blinks several times. “No, I’m good,” he says. “That’s… wow. Okay. Wait. That’s bad?”

Louis laughs again, slightly hysterical. “Of course it’s bad,” he says. “We broke up a year and a half ago, Zayn, did you miss that part?”

“No, I got that,” Zayn says. “But... so?”

“What do you mean, ‘so?’” Louis says. “It’s over. We’re over. God, I should be over it.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, and feels Zayn’s hand on his ankle. “But you’re not over it.”

Louis looks down. “No,” he says softly. “I’m not. I’m really not.”

“And then you had sex with him.”

Louis flinches, but nods. “I did that, yes.”

“But also he had sex with you.”

Louis frowns. “That is typically how sex works, Zayn,” he says. “Do you need me to explain-”

“No,” Zayn says quickly. “I don’t need -- I just mean… well, it seems like Harry might not think things are entirely over either.”

Louis doesn’t look up. “They are.”

“But what if-”

“There is no ‘what if,’ Zayn,” Louis says. “It’s over. It’s just over.”

“Okay,” Zayn says slowly. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why?” Zayn repeats. “Why did you break up? Why can’t you get back together? If you clearly still want him, and he seems to still want you, what is stopping you from getting what you want?”

Louis sighs. “I don’t even know him, Zayn.”

Zayn looks baffled. “What are you talking about?” he says. “You guys were best friends. You know him better than anyone.”

“We _were_ best friends,” Louis repeats softly. “I _knew_ him. Now I’ve barely spoken to him in years.”

“He’s still the same guy.”

“Is he?” Louis asks. “Are _you_ the same person you were five years ago? Back then, you’d never even dyed your hair and you thought you were going to major in History.”

Zayn nods slowly. “I see your point, I guess,” he says. “But I guess I just figure -- I mean, you know the important parts. I don’t know that those change.”

“We were literal children, Zayn,” Louis says. “Everything changes. I was an idiot with no idea how the real world worked. Then I grew up. And like, that’s not a bad thing. But I’m not the person he fell in love with. He’s not the person I fell in love with.” He shrugs. “It was a high school romance, and when we stopped being in high school, it was time to leave it there.”

“But-” Zayn stops and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t pester you; it’s not my business. I just hate seeing you this way.”

“Which way?”

Zayn considers his words for a long moment. “I hate seeing you unhappy,” he says at last. “I hate seeing you in pain. But it’s not just that. I’ve seen that before, sat through that with you before. I’ve never seen you… hopeless, almost. Like you’re used to feeling this way. Like you’ve given up on it ever going away.”

Louis tries not to flinch at Zayn’s description. He has to admit, hopeless is a pretty good description of his general mood of late. He’s hopeless, in so many ways.

“Well, the good news is, if nothing lasts forever, that includes this,” Louis says, trying to sound bright instead of bitter. “And don’t apologize for caring. You’re my friend. It’s all your business. You just can’t always change anything.”

“I wish I could,” Zayn says. “But if I can’t -- you know I’ve always got your back, right? Whatever you need, whenever you need it, just say the word.”

Louis smiles around the lump in his throat. “I know,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Get in here,” Zayn says, pulling Louis in for a hug, and Louis follows willingly. He wraps himself around Zayn and Zayn’s arms are tight around his back and it feels like safety, like cuddling a giant teddy bear, or maybe he’s the teddy bear. It feels like knowing he’s not alone, knowing he’s never alone, knowing that all he has to do is reach out a hand and there will be someone to hold it.

“Bring Liam by before you leave town again, will ya?” Louis says. “It would be good to see him. But I can’t come out tonight.”

“I get it,” Zayn says softly. “And I will. He misses you too, you know.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Louis says. “I’ll work on it, I swear.”

“You’d better,” Zayn says, smiling. “You don’t get rid of us that easily.”

Louis hopes he never gets rids of them. 

~*~*~

_I think you might have my shirt_

Louis blinks at the text from Harry in astonishment.

_Why would I have your shirt_

_You probably grabbed the wrong one when you were sneaking out at six in the morning_

_I did no sneaking,_ Louis lies. _You were just dead asleep and wasted_

_I really wasn’t that drunk_

_Well, maybe you are now. I don’t have your shirt._

_Well I have yours so unless you went home topless…_

To be fair, he might well have done if he couldn’t find a shirt -- he’s not ashamed of his body, and it’s warm enough for it -- but he’s pretty sure he didn’t. He hasn’t done laundry since, though, and as soon as he got home, he took off every stitch and tossed it in the hamper. Then he took a shower so hot it felt like his skin might melt off. All the scrubbing in the world still couldn’t erase the smell of Harry’s shampoo from his nostrils, the lovebites from his chest, the memories from his brain. 

If he has one of Harry’s shirts, it’ll be in there. So with some trepidation, Louis heads to the laundry room and starts to dig through the pile of clothes. 

He finds it near the bottom, when he’s about to give up and tell Harry to ask someone else. It’s a plain gray t-shirt, soft, unremarkable. Louis has probably half a dozen that look similar. But when he flips it over, the design on the front is something he’s never seen before. It looks like it’s from some sort of university arts event, though Louis can’t even begin to guess at anything more specific than that. It’s certainly not his, though.

He snaps a picture and sends it over. _This one?_

_Yes!!!_ There’s a lot of exclamation points, Louis notes. _It’s from when I helped organize Nuit Violette, so it has a lot of good memories_

_I’ll wash it and drop it off sometime this week_

_No, it’s fine, I can come pick it up_

_I’m the one who accidentally took it_

_And I’m the one who asked for it back_

That makes no sense at all as an argument?

_Look,_ Harry texts after a minute of silence, _I don’t really want to explain this to Mum. If there’s a shirt in our mailbox, she’ll be confused. If I just go on a long walk, there are no questions asked._

That at least is an argument Louis can understand. Though he’s not sure why Harry wants to keep him secret from Anne. He misses her, sometimes, misses her baking and her smile and how she was almost as close as another mother. He’s barely thought of her in months, but the ache suddenly feels fresh, like he’s losing everything all over again.

_ok,_ he texts, instead of asking or explaining or thinking. _when?_

_Tonight?_

_I have to leave for work in a few minutes_

_Just leave it outside your door, then. I’ll leave yours in the same place._

Louis frowns. _If it means that much to you, I don’t want to leave it where it could get stepped on or taken._ Louis thinks for a moment. _I’ll leave a key with my neighbor, she’s usually home. The shirt will be on the table just inside the door._

_Works for me! I’ll be by after dinner._

_Cool._

Louis locks his phone and sets it down on the counter. He stares at the t-shirt still clutched in his left hand. Cheeks burning, he can’t resist lifting it to his face and slowly breathing in.

It smells like laundry. It’s been sitting in the basket for a week or more, so it’s absorbed all the smells of the clothes piled atop it. But there’s still a whiff of apple in there, Louis is almost certain. He inhales again, and through the funk he smells beer and sweat, smells sex and skin, and he can almost see Harry splayed out before him again. 

He lowers the shirt and looks down, glaring at the sudden tent in his pants. He really doesn’t have time for this. He checks his phone again. If he doesn’t leave in about five minutes, he’ll probably be late.

His phone vibrates in his hand, displaying a cheerful smileyface emoji from Harry, and whatever willpower Louis has fades away. He sniffs the shirt one more time, then sets it down and turns on the shower.

At least the running water will wash away the evidence.

~*~*~

The last lesson of the day is cancelled -- Mason has bronchitis -- so Louis heads home half an hour early. The drive home is almost deserted, and the underground garage is similarly quiet. Louis likes it that way, likes the peace and quiet and solitude after a long day at work. He steps into the elevator and presses the button for his floor.

The elevator rises two levels to the ground floor, then judders to a halt, the doors sliding open. Louis’ mouth goes dry as he looks up just in time to see Harry walk in.

“Oh!” Harry says with a smile. “What a coincidence! Good to see you, Louis.”

“Erm.” Louis is unprepared for this level of proximity. “Yeah,” he manages. “You too.”

“Here,” Harry says, handing over the folded lump of fabric he carries. “Your shirt.”

Louis takes it gingerly, careful not to let their hands brush, but trying not to seem so. “Thanks.” He’s trying very hard not to think about how close they are, how easy it would be to reach out and touch him, how many times he kissed Harry in the elevators at uni. It’s not working. “I thought you were coming after dinner. It’s nearly nine.”

Harry laughs. “Gemma accidentally set dinner on fire,” he says. “We ordered pizza instead, but then the delivery guy got lost -- it’s been an interesting night, for sure. I’d have texted you again, but I didn’t want to interrupt while you were working.

“No,” Louis says. “Yeah, that makes sense.” The door dings open, and he almost jumps. “Well, that’s me,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you?”

“You still have _my_ shirt,” Harry points out with a laugh.

“Oh,” Louis says. “Right, yeah, I guess I do. Sorry. I didn’t think -- yeah.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, looking amused. “Which way is your apartment?”

“Oh, right, yeah, this way,” Louis says, turning left. They walk in silence, and Louis’ apartment has never felt particularly far from the door, but now the hundred foot distance feels interminable. Louis racks his mind for topics of conversation, but he’s gone blank. 

Finally, they reach his door, and Louis unlocks it with hands that are only slightly unsteady. He reaches in to grab the shirt on the table, not even stepping across the threshold, and hands it to Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling. His smile does things to Louis’ brain.

Louis nods. “Yeah,” he says. “No problem. I mean, thanks.” Fuck, he’s not usually this incoherent. But he’s tired and he’s unprepared and if he’s being honest he’s _really horny_ and it’s just a lot.

Harry laughs again, and reaches out to touch Louis’ cheek. They both freeze for a moment, Harry’s hand almost suspended in time.

“Harry.” Louis’ voice is soft, breathy. He takes a step forward, almost against his will, almost like gravity.

Harry brushes Louis’ hair back from his face, his eyes tender. There’s something else there too, a longing, or a hunger. “Louis,” he murmurs.

Louis swallows hard. His mouth is dry. “Please,” he whispers. He’s not entirely sure what he’s asking for, not sure what he wants, but-

And then Harry is yanking Louis in, Harry’s body is pressed against Louis, Harry’s mouth is on Louis and Louis is drowning in him. This time there is no excuse of alcohol or late nights, nothing clumsy or accidental, no, this is intentional, this is Harry kissing him because he _wants_ to, and this is Louis kissing him because _he_ wants to, has never wanted anything more. Louis rakes his hands up Harry’s back, feeling the way Harry trembles under his touch; buries his hands in Harry’s hair and hears Harry moan. Louis moans too, trembles too, feels every nerve ending light up too. 

They don’t hear the door open down the hall -- Louis isn’t even sure whether it was someone from the elevator or an apartment -- but he hears the wolf whistle, and someone cackling for them to get a room. He pulls back, panting, looking up at Harry’s flushed face.

“Do you wanna…” He tilts his head in the direction of the apartment.

Harry swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Please.”

The door has no sooner closed behind them than Harry is pressing him against it, and they’re kissing and they’re kissing and they’re kissing and Louis never wants to stop. 

At least, that’s what he thinks until Harry is suddenly sliding down his body, pressing his mouth against the front of his jeans, and okay maybe this is just as good as the kissing, as Harry pulls down the zipper slowly, one tooth at a time, and Louis thinks he might pass out before Harry gets to the good bit. Or at least his knees might give way.

“D’you, um.” Louis coughs.

Harry looks up at him, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. He is the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen. “What?”

“Um.” Words. Louis does not have them. “Bed?”

A wide grin spreads over Harry’s face. “Can I carry you?”

Louis’ dick twitches from where it’s barely contained in his underwear. “Um, yeah, sure,” he pants.

Harry rises from his knees in a motion just as fluid as when he sank down. He presses Louis against the wall, kissing him hard, and Louis is helpless to do anything but sink into it. He gasps as Harry’s hands wrap around his ass, and instinctively rolls his hips forward against Harry’s. Harry’s grip falters for a moment, and then he’s hoisting Louis up like he weighs nothing ( _fuck_ that’s hot) and carrying him down the hall. Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, losing himself in the kiss and the touch and the _everything_ that is Harry.

Louis doesn’t even realize they’ve reached his room until he’s suddenly falling backwards onto his bed, Harry crawling up over him, their mouths never separating for a moment. Louis runs his hands up Harry’s sides, feeling the heat of his skin, pushing his shirt up and up as he splays his hands across Harry’s chest. Harry’s fingers are tracing around Louis’ hips, dipping below the waistband, and Louis feels shivers passing through his whole body.

“Please,” he pants into Harry’s mouth. “Get it -- off. Touch me. _Please._ ”

Harry needs no further encouragement, hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling Louis’ jeans and underwear down to his knees in one smooth motion. He starts to move back to remove them the rest of the way, but Louis pulls him back, licking into his mouth. He feels Harry shudder, feels Harry’s cock press against his bare leg through his jeans.

“Louis, I’m-” Harry cuts off with a groan. “Please, I need -- inside-”

Louis can get behind that. Literally.

With a monumental effort, he pulls away long enough to yank Harry’s shirt off over his head, tossing his own aside a moment later. When his face is free of the material, he sees that Harry has unbuttoned his jeans, starting to push them down.

“Stop,” he says, and Harry freezes. There’s an uncertainty in his eyes, suddenly, and Louis moves forward, pressing into his space. “Let me,” he says softly. “I’ve got you, babe.”

Harry shudders as Louis presses a hand against the front of the zipper. “Yessir.”

Louis takes his time with Harry’s jeans, kissing all along Harry’s hips and the lines of dark hair that disappear below the waistband of his underwear as he slowly peels the jeans down. He kisses along Harry’s thighs as he moves down, then kisses his way back up. Harry squirms desperately, wordless noises spilling from his mouth.

When Louis finally tugs down his underwear, Harry _keens_. The noise sends another shudder through Louis, the sensation pooling in his groin. Fuck, he’s so close already, it’s not even fair. He’d be embarrassed, but Harry is clearly in the same state.

He pulls Harry’s underwear the rest of the way off, dipping his head down, but before he can take Harry into his mouth-

“No,” Harry says.

Louis looks up. “What is it?”

“I can’t -- I won’t -- I want you inside first. _Please._ ” He shudders again, and Louis can see that his cock is already weeping precum, so hard it almost hurts to look at. 

“Shit,” Louis says, his own cock throbbing. “Okay, yeah, one sec.”

“Quick,” Harry says, his fingers scrabbling at the duvet. “I’m so -- _Louis_.”

Louis scrambles to the bedside table, hands trembling as he pulls out lube and a condom. He crawls back to between Harry’s legs, coating his fingers and slowly pressing one in. Harry is _tight_ around him, clenching and gasping, but he pants for Louis to continue. He works the finger in and out, adding another and working Harry open.

“Inside,” Harry pants. “Please. _Now_. I won’t last, Lou, I need-”

“Yeah,” Louis says, ripping open the condom as Harry shudders again. He manages to roll it onto himself, his hands still shaking, and then kneels over Harry. “Do you wanna-”

“Like this,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Wanna see you.”

Louis’ heart is pounding, but he nods, shuffling forwards and -- finally, _finally_ \-- pressing in. 

It’s heavenly. He moans, Harry’s moan echoing a moment behind. Fuck, he’s not going to last, he’s so close already, he’s not sure he’s ever been this hard before and combined with the feeling of Harry tight and warm around him, the sight of Harry’s flushed face and blown pupils and swollen lips, the taste of Harry on his tongue as Louis leans down to kiss him again -- he tries to hold on, to savor every moment, but he’s only a few thrusts in and his vision is blurry.

He adjusts his position and feels Harry stiffen, his head snapping back into the pillows. 

“There, right there,” he babbles, as Louis hits his prostate again, again, again. “Yes, Louis, oh God, more, _Louis, fuck!”_

Harry comes so hard Louis isn’t sure he’s still breathing, the hot liquid painting both their stomachs. Louis isn’t far behind, two thrusts, maybe three, and then he’s panting Harry’s name over and over and over like a mantra as the orgasm hits him like a fucking train. He collapses against Harry’s chest, breathless and boneless and absolutely reeling with pleasure. 

He never wants to move again. He never wants to be anywhere but wrapped up in bed with Harry, pressed against his bare skin, Harry’s hands combing through his hair. 

After a few minutes, he feels Harry shift beneath him, but he still clings in place, holding onto this moment for just a few more seconds. Then he feels Harry’s fingers press against his ass, slick with excess lube.

“My turn,” Harry murmurs in Louis’ ear.

On second thought, maybe moving isn’t such a bad idea. He slides further up Harry’s chest, and Harry gets to work.

~*~*~

Louis wakes up to an empty bed, and he can’t decide whether he’s disappointed or relieved. It’s simpler, of course. And it’s only fair, after Louis did the same. But still, a part of him half-hoped that he would wake up next to Harry. 

He makes a face, rolling out of bed. One step at a time. He uses the bathroom, splashes a little water on his face, stares at himself in the mirror. His cheeks sag slightly, like his smile has atrophied, and there are circles under his eyes. It’s been a restless few months, though he has to admit, last night was the best he’s slept in a while.

He grimaces again, wiping his face on a towel and walking out of the bathroom. Breakfast will help, or at least tea. He walks into the kitchen, heading for the cupboard. 

“Good morning.”

Louis lets out a strangled yelp, almost tripping as he spins around and sees Harry sitting at the table. A steaming mug rests on the table in front of him, Harry’s hands wrapped around it. 

“I thought you’d left,” Louis manages after a moment.

“I didn’t,” Harry says. “That’s your bit.”

Louis scoffs. “Oh, don’t play it off like it was some great subterfuge,” he says. “Nobody enjoys the conversation the morning after a one-night stand.”

“Was it a one-night stand?”

What the fuck. “What else would it be?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s happened twice now.”

“Two-night stand, then,” Louis says. “Hookup. Whatever you want to call it. The morning after is awkward. _This_ is awkward.”

“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward,” Harry says. His eyes trace down Louis’ body, then flick back up to meet Louis’. “I don’t feel awkward,” he says blandly.

Louis suddenly realizes that he is completely naked, not having pulled on so much as a pair of boxers, and he shifts uncomfortably. It’s nothing Harry hasn’t seen before -- plenty of times, even -- but, well. It’s awkward, suddenly. Vulnerable. He bites down the urge to cover himself or turn away. He won’t give Harry the satisfaction.

“Then you may be the only person on the planet to feel that way,” he says instead. “Enjoy my tea; feel free to let yourself out when you’re finished. I’m going back to bed.” What he really wants is a shower, wants to try to wash the feeling of Harry’s touch from his skin and the longing from his heart, like maybe this time it’ll work, maybe this time he’ll finally feel clean afterwards. He doubts it, but he’s very good at lying to himself. He turns to leave.

“I’m not leaving,” Harry says.

Louis pauses. “What?”

“I’m not leaving,” Harry repeats. “Not until you sit down and have a conversation like a normal adult.”

Louis would rather pull out his own eyelashes. “I could kick you out,” he says. “Or call security.”

“Could you?”

Louis wishes with all his might he could say yes. But he hates lying to Harry. “Probably not,” he says with a sigh. “Can I at least get dressed first?” 

He feels Harry’s gaze travel up and down his body, and he tries not to shiver at the sensation. “Fine,” Harry says. “But don’t go jumping out a window or something.”

“We’re on the fourth floor.”

“Yeah, so?” Harry says. “Wouldn’t be the stupidest thing you’ve done.”

Louis has to give him that. “I won’t jump out a window,” he promises. “I just want to be a little more… on even footing.”

A mischievous grin starts to spread over Harry’s face. “I could-”

“Do not,” Louis says, pointing a finger that he really hopes isn’t trembling. “Keep your damn clothes on, for the love of God.”

Harry laughs. “Fine,” he says. “Probably for the best, anyways. I don’t want to get… distracted.”

His gaze licks up Louis’ body again, and Louis’ breath hitches. He turns on his heel, almost running out of the kitchen as he retreats to his bedroom. He grabs the first clothes he sees, tugging them on, but even the light brush of material as he pulls on his boxers makes him gasp. His cock bulges against the material, almost throbbing. He tries to adjust it, conceal it, but the touch only makes it worse. Cheeks burning, Louis sits down on the bed, grabs a tissue, and sets to work.

It takes mere seconds before he’s squirming against the mattress, trying to keep his panting quiet. Memories of the previous night flash before his eyes, of Harry’s hands on Louis’ hips, Harry’s mouth on Louis’ ass, Harry’s eyes peering into Louis’ soul. His hand works faster, making quick strokes, and he moans softly. His neck twists, face pressing into the sheets, and the smell of Harry’s shampoo washes over him. 

It’s the last straw. Louis comes with a groan, partially muffled by the mattress. He lies still for a moment, letting his breathing settle. He tries not to think, but a single tear works its way free from his eye. He wipes it away with his clean hand. 

“Why is it always him?” he wonders in a voice barely above a whisper. “Why does he always do this? Why can I never help myself?”

He doesn’t have the answers. 

A minute later he’s clean and dressed, walking back into the kitchen. A second mug of tea now sits in front of the chair opposite Harry. Louis swallows hard and takes the seat. 

~*~*~

Silence hangs heavy between them. Louis initially thought he didn’t want the tea, thought he just might throw up if he had any, but now he’s grateful to have something to do as he waits for Harry to start talking. He still might throw up, but that’s preferable to just sitting here in suspended eternity. 

He sips his tea, glancing sidelong at Harry, who is staring into his tea, swirling the mug in his hands like he lives here, like Louis isn’t even in the room. For a moment, Louis flashes back to a hundred breakfasts together, or quiet moments where neither of them felt the need to say anything, content to just be silent, be there, be together. How far things have fallen.

He’s determined to not be the first one to break, but as the silence stretches longer -- five minutes, then ten -- he realizes that Harry is just as determined. They’ve always been stubborn, the two of them. So sure of themselves, so set in their ways. Sometimes that was a good thing. Sometimes it kept them strong. Other times… 

Other times it just hurt.

Louis doesn’t want this to hurt anymore.

“You wanted to talk,” he says. His voice sounds and feels rough with disuse, or maybe emotion. “So talk.”

The smallest flicker of a smile flashes across Harry’s face as he stares down at his tea -- brief, but Louis catches it -- and then vanishes. “I want to talk,” he says. “If we’re going to keep winding up in each other’s bed, it seems like-”

“We’re not,” Louis says firmly.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And yet here we are,” he says. “Again. For fuck’s sake, Louis, you treat me like I have the plague whenever I see you-”

“Because it’s _awkward_ ,” Louis says. “I know you seem to be alienly immune to the concept of awkward, but for us humans, seeing an ex is _awkward_.”

“-and then,” Harry plows on like Louis hadn’t spoken, “the next thing I know you’re kissing me and begging me to touch you. What gives?”

Bile fills Louis’ mouth. He swallows it down and shakes his head, saying nothing.

Harry scowls. “Fine,” he says. “Be that way. I’m not leaving. I can wait. I’ve got the fucking time if you do.”

It’s not that. It’s not that Louis is refusing to answer. It’s not that he doesn’t want to -- well, it’s a little bit that he doesn’t want to, but mostly -- he has no fucking clue how to answer. He doesn’t _know_ why Harry makes him so weak, rips down every barrier he tries to put up like it’s made of paper and Harry is a tsunami. He doesn’t know why Harry is the one thing he wants most and the one thing he can’t have. 

“I don’t know,” he says at last. It’s not much, but it’s all he’s got. “I really don’t know. I’ve tried, but -- I don’t know.”

The indignation slowly drains out of Harry, and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. It’s short lived.

“Further back, then,” he says. “Why did you break things off? I know the distance was hard, but we’d done it for a year already. I thought we were good. And then suddenly… you were gone.”

Louis looks up in surprise. “It’s been two years,” he says. “You’re still hung up on that?” It’s hypocritical to say the least -- he’s still hung up on Harry, after all, but he’s surprised. 

“You came to visit me at university, then broke up with me halfway through the week,” Harry says. “You stopped talking to me, wouldn’t answer my messages, changed your phone number. Is it so surprising that I’d want some answers?” 

His voice is harsh, almost angry, and Louis supposes he has reason to be. “I’m sorry,” Louis says softly.

That seems to catch Harry off guard, his head jerking up to look at Louis like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Like he’s not entirely sure Louis means it. 

He means it. He’s sorry. Maybe not for the things Harry expects, but he’s sorry. He’s sorry that Harry got hurt. He’s sorry that it’s his fault. 

But he’s not sorry he ended it. He’s not. He can’t be. Not when it was already on the way out.

“We grew up, we grew apart,” he says. “It’s natural. You didn’t need me anymore.” 

“Bullshit,” Harry says. “Bull-fucking-shit. I needed you. You were the most important person in my life. Do you have any idea what that feels like, to have your entire world tell you that ‘There’s no point dragging it out,’ like you’re some kind of burden? It fucking sucks!”

Louis winces. It does hurt, even hearing it secondhand, the words thrown back in his face still stinging like acid even years later. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. It’s not enough, and he knows it. 

“And then you fucking vanished,” Harry says. “You wouldn’t answer my texts, my calls, I even tried _emails_. You weren’t on social media… it was like you dropped off the face of the Earth. Fuck, Lou, I wound up calling your mother to make sure you hadn’t fucking _died_ or something.”

Louis looks up in surprise. Jay hadn’t mentioned that. 

“And then I come back,” Harry says, in full rant mode now. “And I’m not optimistic, but I thought -- maybe, maybe we could at least talk, even if you’re not in love with me, but no, the only time we ever say anything worth saying is when we’re tearing our fucking clothes off. I can’t _do_ this, Louis. I can’t. I can’t be tossed around like this, I can’t keep ripping open the same old wounds that almost killed me. Just decide if you want me in your life or not, and then act like you fucking mean it. Do you care about me at all, or do you hate me? Tell me you’re over me, tell me you never want to see me again, I don’t care, but just fucking say it.”

“Fine,” Louis says. He slams his hands on the table, and hot tea splashes out of the mug, but he ignores the pinpricks of pain. They’re miniscule in comparison. “You want the fucking truth? Fine. Maybe I’m not over it. Maybe it’s been two fucking years and I’m still hung up on you and I hate myself for it. Maybe everyone else I’ve kissed feels hollow in comparison, everyone else I’ve fucked feels like I’m going through the motions. Maybe so. But that doesn’t mean we’re compatible. It just means I’m an idiot.”

Silence hangs between them for a long moment. Harry looks at Louis like he’s trying to figure him out, and Louis thinks if he can, that’d make one of them. As the seconds drag on, there’s a growing spark in Harry’s eye that looks dangerously hope. Louis hates that. It can’t end well. 

“I can’t count how many people I went on dates with,” Harry says, and Louis feels sick, and he tells himself it’s good. “I can’t tell you how many people I tried to want, but couldn’t. They weren’t funny or they weren’t kind or they weren’t clever. They weren’t _you_.” He stands, moving around the table. “Lou, I still want-”

“Stop.” Louis’ voice is soft, but it’s firm. It brooks no argument, and Harry doesn’t try. “You don’t even know me.”

Harry frowns. “Of course I do.”

“Really?” Louis says, looking up at him. His eyes are damp, but he refuses to let the tears fall. “Do you know a single thing about the last two years of my life? My best friend’s name? My favorite bar?”

“You haven’t let me,” Harry says. “But I could-”

“You don’t know me,” Louis repeats. “You’re in love with a memory. It’s stupid. And I don’t say that to be mean, I’m stupid too, but it’s just -- ugh. That’s not how it works. That’s not how anything works. That’s why we would never work. It’s pointless.”

“You always say that,” Harry says, frustration spilling into his words. “You said that when we broke up. What the fuck is so pointless about the fact that I love you and you love me?”

_I love you and you love me._ Louis wishes with everything he is that those words weren’t true, but he knows they are.

“We were children, Harry,” Louis says softly. “We barely knew anything about the real world. We were a high school fling.”

“It wasn’t a fling and you know it.”

“It was.”

“We were together for three fucking years. Don’t tell me that didn’t mean anything.”

It meant everything. But it was the past. “High school puppy love never lasts, Harry,” Louis says. He feels like a broken record, redundantly repeating himself over and over, but it never seems to stick. “Everyone knows that. _We_ were never going to last. We had a great few years, but it was only a matter of time.”

Harry glares scornfully at Louis. “You’re wrong,” he says. “We could have made it. You just stopped believing in us. You let what everyone said go to your head. The only reason we broke up is because _you_ had already decided that we would.” He takes a step forward, towering over Louis. “You gave up on us,” he says accusingly. “All I wanted was to be with you, but you were so stuck in your insecurities that you self-destructed the best thing you had.”

Louis stares up at him, mouth agape. He tries to think of something to say, but comes up blank. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. 

Harry scoffs. “You’re a coward,” he says. “Dammit, Louis, since when do you care what anyone thinks? Since when do you give a single shit what anyone says your life should be?” He shakes his head, turning on his heel and walking towards the door. “Grow some fucking balls, Lou.”

He yanks open the door, startling Louis out of his stunned silence. “Harry, wait-”

But the door slams, and Harry is gone. 

Louis tries to get to his feet, but his legs are putty. And even if he did, if he ran after him -- then what? What would he say? What could he possibly say?

Harry is right. He was afraid of a future he had no reason to believe would happen. Sure, maybe they wouldn’t have made it -- but maybe they would have. Maybe they were the exception. 

But he gave up before they even had a chance to find out. 

Louis sits in that empty kitchen for a long time, staring into nothing and wondering just what he threw away.

~*~*~

Louis spends the next few days in a distracted haze. He mostly keeps it together at work -- though he does call Haley by her brother’s name, and almost takes Amanda into the (fortunately unoccupied) guitar room for her piano lesson. He’s worked through worse, though, and he’s used to putting up a professional face, wearing competence like a costume. 

The people who know him, though -- they notice. 

Lottie notices, when he takes her to the zoo and she almost loses him in the amphibian section. He tells her he’s fine, he’s just dealing with some personal stuff. She doesn’t want to pry, but he can tell she’s worried. “You know you can talk to me, right?” she says. “I know you’re the big brother, but I care about you too.”

Louis strokes her hair gently. “I know, Lotts,” he says. “And I appreciate it. I just need to figure a few things out on my own, I think.” 

Bebe notices, and she’s on him by the end of his first lesson, asking him what’s going on, is he okay, does she need to buy a shovel? He tries to laugh, but it feels hollow. 

“No shovels needed,” he tells her. “I’m -- well, I guess I’m already digging up enough of the past.”

Bebe frowns. “I don’t know that I like the sound of that,” she says.

Louis sighs. “I haven’t quite decided yet either,” he says. “But it’s up, and now it’s just a matter of what to do with it.”

“Is there anything-”

“I’ll let you know,” he promises. But these are his ghosts, his choices, from a time before he even knew her. Sometimes distance helps perspective. But this time, he needs something closer.

Zayn notices, now that they’re texting more, and after the second time Louis accidentally wanders off mid-conversation and leaves him on read, he calls. 

“I warned you that you weren’t getting rid of us that easy,” Zayn says, waggling a finger at the camera, his tone jokingly threatening. 

“Sorry,” Louis says. “Sorry, it’s been kind of a week.”

“Yeah?” Zayn says. “Wanna tell me about it?”

He does and he doesn’t. Louis bites his lip, trying to figure out what to say. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking,” he says. “About some of the stuff we talked about.”

“About -- ah.” Zayn lets out a soft breath. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Like… you’re right, we were happy. For a long time.”

Zayn nods. “If I’m being honest, I was gobsmacked when you broke up,” he says. “You guys seemed like the kind of couple who would go the distance.”

Louis runs a hand through his hair, digging his nails into his scalp. “I wish you’d said that back then,” he says softly. “I think I needed to hear that. Everyone else seemed to be telling me differently.”

Zayn winces. “I’m sorry.”

Louis shrugs. “It is what it is, I guess,” he says. “We can’t change the past. I might be seeing it differently, but the present is still the same. Harry is still a stranger.”

“I wish I could help with that,” Zayn says. “We stayed in touch more than you, obviously, but I only really know bits and pieces.”

“I know,” Louis says. “It’s okay.” 

He has an idea. It might be a terrible one or a brilliant one, but he has an idea. 

Zayn doesn’t know Harry. Bebe doesn’t know Harry. Louis doesn’t know Harry. But he knows someone who does. 

He sits staring at Gemma’s Facebook page for longer than he’d care to admit, trying to pluck up the courage to hit the “send message” button. What if she yells at him? What if she blocks him? What if she tells him to never talk to Harry again?

But the thing is, it can’t really get worse, can it?

He pushes the button.

_Hi, I know this is weird, but I was wondering if you’d be free to talk sometime? It would be a big help._

He locks his phone as soon as he hits send, dropping it onto the couch beside him like it’s radioactive waste. He tries to ignore it, to pay attention to the show playing on the TV or the piano arrangement he’s working to simplify, but he keeps looking over involuntarily, waiting.

When it buzzes a minute later, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He reaches for it with trembling fingers, trying to tell himself that it could be anyone, it could be from Bebe or his sisters or even-

It’s from her.

_Don’t you think you’ve fucked around my brother enough already?_

He wonders if she knows, or if it’s just an unfortunate turn of phrase. He has no idea. Harry was always close with his family, but from what he’s said to Louis, it sounded like he didn’t want to tell them some things. 

_I don’t want to hurt him,_ Louis types. _I just need to talk to someone who knows him. Someone who will tell me the truth, not what I want to hear or what they think will hurt me least. You won’t mince words to spare my feelings._

_Not when it comes to Harry._

_Good. That’s what I want. That’s what I need._

_What do you want to know?_

He wants to know everything. He wants to know Harry. He wants to know what he’s broken, and how badly. 

_Can we meet?_ he asks. _It’s kind of a lot for a text convo. Are you free Saturday evening?_

~*~*~

Louis stands outside the coffee shop, trying to work up the nerve to walk in. His heart is pounding, and everything in him wants to run. He tries to tell himself it’s just Gemma, it’s just coffee, it’s just a conversation, but -- when it comes to Harry, there’s no such thing as “just” anything. Everything matters. Everything is important.

He tries to tell his legs to move, but he can’t put enough force in the command. He tries to tell his hand to reach for the door, but it falls short. He sighs, biting his lip. “Just fucking do it,” he whispers.

“First date?”

Louis jumps, turning around. A elderly lady is standing nearby, leaning on her cane with a kindly smile on her face. “Oh,” he says. “Uh, no, not exactly. Just meeting someone for coffee.”

“Is that someone a young lady?”

“I mean -- well, technically, but-”

“I knew it!” The woman points dramatically with the hand not holding her cane. “Young man, I know what a body looks like when they’re in love.”

He’s about to try to dissuade her, but suddenly he doesn’t want to. The details don’t matter. “You’re right,” he says softly. “I am in love.”

“Of course I’m right,” she says. “Is your lady friend already inside?”

“Uh, yeah.” He’d seen her when he peeked in a few minutes ago. He’s been carefully hovering just around the corner from the door ever since.

“Good,” the woman says. “Take my arm.”

“What?”

“Take my arm.” She holds out the arm not using the cane. “You’re helping me into the shop. Makes a good impression on your lady friend. You’re chivalrous, kind, helpful. A perfect boyfriend.”

Louis can’t help smiling. “That’s sweet of you,” he says.

“Darn tootin’,” she says. “Besides, if I don’t drag you in you might spend another ten minutes dithering out here. Don’t keep your lady waiting.”

She hooks her arm through his, not even waiting for him to move, then tugs him towards the door. 

Louis blinks, and he’s inside. She’s escorting him more than he’s helping her, but she leans heavily against him. As they take a few steps into the shop, she pauses, turning to pat Louis on the hand. 

“Thank you kindly for the assistance, young man,” she says loudly. “I appreciate your help. Stairs are so difficult for me these days.” 

“Of course,” Louis says automatically. “I’m glad I could help, ma’am.”

“You are such a gentleman,” she says. She lowers her voice. “Now, go find that young lady of yours. And good luck!” She gives him a conspiratorial grin and a wink, and then he finds himself almost pushed away from her. He turns around, immediately finding Gemma, who is looking right back at him. He swallows hard and walks over.

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey. Who was that?”

“I just ran into her outside,” Louis says. “She wanted me to help her with the steps.” 

“Ah.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment. Fuck, it’s awkward already. Louis fishes for his wallet. “Do you want to get anything?” he asks. “My treat. As a thank you.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“No, I insist.” Louis presses his debit card into her hand. “Get whatever you want, on me.”

Gemma looks at the card, then back to him. “And for you?”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just don’t want to take up the table without buying anything.”

Gemma nods. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

She heads for the order counter, and Louis collapses into the chair opposite hers. He feels shaky all over, and which is part of why he didn’t want to buy anything -- he’s not completely sure he won’t just throw it up. 

He really doesn’t want that to happen.

Fuck, what is he even going to say? He’s thought about it, of course -- probably _too_ much; he’s even brainstormed and written up notes -- but he’s still… completely fucking terrified. What will she say to him, what will she _do_ \-- fuck, what has she told Harry?

Maybe he shouldn’t have done this. 

Before his doubts can grow any louder, Gemma plops down in front of him, a cup in each hand and a cookie wrapped in a napkin. She sets one of the cups in front of him, putting his debit card beside it.

“I got you tea anyways,” she says. “You look like you could use it.”

Louis says nothing, but he wraps his hands around the cup, and he has to admit the feeling of the warmth is nice. 

Gemma takes a bite of the cookie. “So,” she says. “You wanted to talk to me.”

“I did.”

“About my brother.”

“About my -- your -- about Harry, yeah.”

She waits a moment. “You gonna do that or…”

Louis twists his cup on the table. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just… it’s a lot. I barely know where to begin. I guess -- can you just, like… tell me about him?”

Gemma frowns. “You dated him for three years,” she says. “Don’t you know him pretty well already?”

“I knew him,” Louis corrects. “I know who he _was_. These days… is he even still majoring in Sociology?”

“Double major,” Gemma says. “He added Political Science.” She frowns at him. “You didn’t know?”

Louis shakes his head, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth, heavy and toxic. 

Gemma lets out a soft breath. “What do you know?”

“About the past two years? That he’s alive. That’s about it, honestly.”

“You haven’t talked at all? Not even since he’s been back?”

“I mean…” ‘Talked’ feels like the wrong term, but he _really_ doesn’t want to correct it. “We’ve run into each other a few times, but… not in depth. Not about anything that mattered.”

“Wow,” Gemma says. “Okay. I mean I guess that makes sense, but I just -- I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “It was pretty -- yeah. I guess I figured a clean cut was best.”

“I’m not sure it was.”

Louis stares down at his drink. “I don’t know anymore either.”

He feels more than hears Gemma’s sharp intake of breath. He closes his eyes, preparing for the onslaught of her questions -- or her criticisms. 

But it doesn’t come. He slowly looks up at her, and finds her watching him appraisingly -- thoughtfully. Her eyes don’t trust him, but there is a softness to them too. Like she hasn’t decided what she thinks just yet. 

“He’s in a choir,” she says at last, “and he’s involved with a club that holds regular bake sales for charity. He cooks at a soup kitchen. He’s interested in going into activism or community work, or maybe politics. Wherever he can help people.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Louis says softly. “It sounds like him, though. It sounds like exactly what he’d want to be doing.”

“He’s enjoying it for sure,” Gemma says. “But there are still moments…” She trails off, looking Louis up and down. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but the hollow hasn’t quite left his eyes. Sometimes I catch him staring into space, or freezing halfway through doing something. But he won’t talk about it.”

Louis feels sick to his stomach. He swallows. “What’s the wrong way to take that?”

Gemma rubs the lid of her coffee cup. “I just haven’t decided yet whether I trust you to try to light it back up,” she says. “I haven’t decided if I think you should have any place in my brother’s life.

That seems fair. It makes two of them, even: Louis hasn’t decided if he trusts himself either. 

“Do you love him?” she asks suddenly.

Louis feels nauseous, both at the idea that anyone might question it and at the idea of saying it aloud. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “I do,” he says softly. “More than anything. More than I ever realized I could.”

“Why did you break up with him?” 

It’s a question he has a million answers to, and yet that he feels like he no longer knows the answer to. He bites his lip, trying to figure out how to sort out the two-year-old mess of emotions and fears and pain and reasons into something resembling coherence.

“I felt like it was inevitable,” he says at last. “Everyone and their mother kept telling me how high school romances are so sweet, but they never last. So I assumed we were going to break up at some point. That point seemed as good as any. I figured holding on just meant that when things finally fell apart, they’d hurt even more. And he was… he was doing so well.” Louis shakes his head. “When I went up to visit, he had so many friends. He was doing so well in his classes, and he loved them. He didn’t need me. It seemed like it was time to let him grow without me holding him back.”

Gemma frowns. “What do you mean, ‘holding him back’?” 

“It’s _uni_ ,” Louis says. “You know how it is. He should be free to explore, to try things.” He bites his lip, shame burning in his chest, but he pushes the words out anyways. “And I mean… I flunked out of university. But Harry… he’s brilliant. I saw him in class, so bright, even the prof was in love with him. He deserved someone who could keep up with him. Someone who was on his level.”

“Someone who wasn’t a failure?”

Louis winces. He was trying not to say that in so many words, but he’s thought it more than once. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

“Mmm.” Gemma sips from her drink. “He failed that class, you know.”

Louis jerks back. “What? How?” he says. “He knew everything the prof asked.”

“He stopped going,” Gemma says. “I think he technically dropped the class before it would go on his transcript, but he got a 37% on the midterm.”

Louis sits back in his chair, reeling. “I had no idea,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Gemma says. “Do you think he’s a failure?”

Louis looks at her in shock. “Of course not.”

“Even though he failed a course? You still think he’s smart? You still think he’s valuable?”

Louis looks down. “All right, point taken,” he says. 

“Good.” Gemma eats another piece of cookie. “You’re not a failure, Louis. You’re not a consolation prize. You’re not a burden. There are a million ways to be of value, and it’s time you gave yourself some fucking credit.”

It’s one of the more aggressive pep talks he’s ever been given, but he appreciates it. He’s not sure he could handle softness right now. That’s why he picked Gemma over Anne. 

“So,” Gemma continues, “now that we have established that you are not a failure and you are not holding Harry back, do we need to go over why breaking up with someone because you assume you’re going to break up eventually is stupid?”

“No,” Louis says. “That one… Harry gave me a pretty good speech on why that was stupid.”

“Did he?” Gemma’s eyes are piercing, and Louis shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. He wonders how much she knows, how much she can read on him. He doesn’t want to know. 

“I guess it’s hard to hear something a hundred times and not internalize it,” he says. “But it doesn’t mean it’s true. And temporary doesn’t have to mean unimportant. A moment can still have value.”

“Poetic,” Gemma says. “So now that we’ve sorted that -- what are you going to do?”

Louis stares at the cup in his hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “I wish -- I wish a thousand things, a thousand _impossible_ things. I wish I’d never let my insecurities get the best of me. I wish I’d said something earlier. I wish we could start over.”

“You can’t change the past.”

“I know,” Louis says. “But at least I know what the past looks like. The future is… a total blank. And it terrifies me.”

“What do you _want_ to do?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says again. “I guess -- I’m not sure I deserve him back. I’m not sure he deserves to be put through that again. I’m not sure he should take that risk -- or feel like he is. I don’t want to hurt him. He deserves to be with someone who makes him feel safe.”

“But you want to be with him.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. It’s a true statement. Louis swallows hard and nods. “If he’d have me, if he’d be happy with me… I want to be with him. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Don’t you think he should be the one to make that choice?”

Louis shrugs. “I mean, I guess, but he probably-”

“Do you have the slightest idea what he wants?” Gemma interrupts. “Not guesses, not assumptions, mind -- do you actually _know_?”

“No,” Louis admits. “I don’t. Do you-”

“I wouldn’t speak for him if I did,” Gemma says, holding up a hand. “So. What are you going to do?”

It’s a leading question if Louis has ever heard one. He knows what she wants to hear, and he knows she’s right. It doesn’t make it less terrifying. He swallows hard. “I’m going to ask him,” he says. “I’m going to tell him the truth, and I’m going to ask him if he wants to try again.”

“Good,” Gemma says. She stands up. “Let’s go.”

Louis looks up in shock. “What -- now?”

“No time like the present,” Gemma says. “Chop chop.”

She’s determined, Louis will give her that. “This is not how I expected this to go,” he says, fiddling with his drink lid. 

“Me neither,” Gemma says. “Now stop stalling. Your future is waiting.”

Louis stands and follows her out.

~*~*~

“Harry!” Gemma is barely through the door before she’s calling into the house. “I’m home!”

Louis hovers on the doorstep, trying not to wring his hands. Fuck, he’s really here, he’s really doing this, he can’t do this-

“You don’t have to announce your presence,” Harry says, and oh God he’s at the top of the stairs. “You were only gone for an hour.”

“I was meeting someone for coffee,” Gemma said. “Come see them.”

“Oh, were you?” Harry laughs. “Fine, introduce me to your coffee date.” He starts to descend the stairs.

Louis can feel his heartbeat with every footstep, loud and pounding against his ribs. His mouth is dry, his breath short, and he has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. 

Louis can see the moment when Harry recognizes him, even though he can’t see Harry’s face yet and Harry can’t see his. He can see Harry’s step falter, he almost misses the next stair and his grip on the railing redoubles. The last few steps are slower, hesitant. And then there he is.

Louis swallows hard.

“Hi,” he says.

Harry looks from Louis to Gemma and back. “Wait,” he says. “What are you-”

Louis’ eyes widen. “I’m not dating your sister!” he blurts. “I swear!” 

In other circumstances, the comment might be funny, might break some of the tension, but as it is, only Gemma laughs, and it peters out into silence after a few seconds. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks. The words are blunt, and Louis can’t read the emotion in them. Is Harry irritated, is he hopeful, is he wary? All Louis can sense is confusion. Which is fair.

“I love you,” Louis says, and wow, that wasn’t how he planned to start this but it’s true and it’s too late and he just plows ahead. “I love you, and I have always loved you, and I have never stopped loving you. And I know I fucked things up, because I was scared -- you were right, I was afraid and I was insecure and I let other people tell me who I was, what we were, but at the end of the day all I wanted was forever with you and -- God, Harry, that’s still all I want, more than you can possibly imagine. And I know I hurt you, and I’m so fucking sorry, and I don’t really deserve another chance, but I have to at least say it, I have to try, I have to ask-”

“Shut up,” Harry says, and Louis’ mouth snaps shut before he can even think another word. Harry closes the distance between them in two quick strides, fire in his eyes and certainty in his movements, and for a moment Louis is afraid that he’s about to be kicked out on the porch.

But then there are hands in his hair and lips on his and Harry is kissing him Harry is _kissing him_ and Louis may be shocked but he’s not stupid. He kisses back, kisses Harry with everything he has in him, digging his fingers into Harry’s back like he can somehow make the lack of space between them even smaller. 

Dimly, he hears Gemma say something about giving them space, and he’d honestly already forgotten she was there. No one else registers to him, nothing else matters except Harry, only Harry’s fingers in his hair and Harry’s mouth on his mouth and Harry’s skin under his palms. There are little noises slipping from Harry’s throat, and Louis wants to swallow every single one, make it a part of his body, remember it for the rest of his life.

When they finally pull apart to breathe, Louis realizes that Harry is crying. Like, properly crying, tears pouring down his cheeks, chest heaving, face red -- but he’s smiling. He’s smiling in a way Louis hasn’t seen him smile in ages, the kind of smile that always made Louis wonder if he’d ever really experienced happiness like that smile. Louis reaches out, running a thumb along that smile, then wiping away a few of the tears, but they just keep coming. 

“You’re crying, too,” Harry burbles after a moment, and Louis realizes that it’s true. His own eyes are producing the same steady stream of tears as Harry’s.

“I was so scared,” Louis says softly. “I was so convinced I was going to lose you.”

“Then or now?”

“Both,” Louis says. “I meant now, but both. You are -- you are the best thing I’ve ever had in my life, the best choice I ever made, and letting you go -- throwing you away -- that was the worst. But if you let me try again -- I swear I’ll never make that mistake again.”

“What do you mean, ‘if’?” Harry says, laughing through his tears, gripping Louis’ arms like he’s afraid to let go. “I love you, Louis. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I’m going to and you can’t stop me.”

“Not trying to stop you.”

“Good.”

Harry kisses him again, and Louis melts into it. It’s softer, this time, less desperate and needy and more gentle, more tender, like they’re remembering what it’s like to fall into each other, intentionally this time. Louis holds Harry’s face in his hands like it’s the most valuable treasure he’s ever touched. Harry runs his fingers along Louis’ sides like he’s re-learning every familiar curve. It’s so easy, the way they slot into each other, as though no time has passed at all.

It won’t always be easy, Louis knows. Come fall, Harry will be at university again, and Louis… won’t be. Distance will be hard, comparison will be hard, but he knows it this time, knows it’s worth it anyways. Maybe he’ll move to Allendale, find a job at another studio, or even start his own. Maybe he’ll wait here, and Harry will call and visit when he can. He doesn’t know. All he knows is they’ll do it together. All that matters is that right now, they are together.

“Come upstairs?” Harry asks in a whisper. “Not to -- I just want to hold you. I just want to remember what that feels like.”

Tears prick at the corners of Louis’ eyes. “Of course,” he says. “I’ve missed that.” 

Harry slides a hand down Louis’ arm, gripping his hand tightly. He leads Louis up the stairs and into the bedroom that holds so many of Louis’ best memories, so many firsts, so many moments he’s tried so hard not to think about for the past two years. As Louis looks around, it feels like he’s breathing in all the pieces of himself that he left behind, slotting them back into holes he hadn’t realized were aching until suddenly they were whole again. 

Harry tugs Louis onto the bed, pressing himself into Louis’ arms and tucking his head against Louis’ chest. Louis wraps his arms around Harry, holding him close, feeling his breath and his heartbeat, and they’re fully dressed but it’s somehow so much more intimate than the last time they were here. It’s perfect. It’s all Louis can even imagine wanting. 

There’s more to talk about, of course, but that’s for later. For now, Louis breathes in Harry’s apple shampoo and his lavender dryer sheets, he counts Harry’s slow even breaths, he feels his eyes slipping shut as everything feels more comfortable than he’s been in months. 

When Anne and Gemma peer in from the doorway an hour later, Louis and Harry are fast asleep, still wrapped up in each other. And all four of them couldn’t be happier. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, feelings, favourite parts, questions, anything you'd like to leave in a comment means the world. Or just drop a kudos to support my dopamine addiction via AO3 kudos emails. 
> 
> You can check out the rest of the Walls Fic Fest contributions on Tumblr [here](https://wallsficfest.tumblr.com) or on AO3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/WallsFicFest/works); there's some incredibly talented writers sharing some amazing works so give it a look! The post for fics based on "Too Young" (including this one) is [here](https://wallsficfest.tumblr.com/post/617283330689433600/we-had-everything-by-anonymous-you-know-harrys).


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